


Dean Winchester Is a Gay Virgin

by betts



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Humor, Baseball, College Student Dean, Comedy, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gay Dean, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Russian Castiel, Russian Mafia, Slow Burn, Thriller, Virgin Dean, Virginity, You'll cry, all of the feels, it has a silly name but it's filled with feels i promise, you'll laugh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-30
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-27 14:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 79,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1713740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/pseuds/betts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean Winchester has a grand total of two big secrets: </p><p>Secret #1 is that he’s a virgin.</p><p>Secret #2 is that he’s gay."</p><p>***</p><p>Dean Winchester is a college junior, a full-time mechanic, and a baseball superstar. He's so far in the closet, he can't find a way out. Then he meets Castiel Krushnic, the totally dreamy President of the LGBTQA Alliance at school, and finds out that Cas has some dark secrets of his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Dean

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna post the first chapter here to figure out if this fic is worth finishing. So if you enjoy it and want to read more, leave a kudos/comment/bookmark so I can gauge if I should keep going or not?
> 
> Thank you, I love you all. Check out the [author tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) for other creative updates and whatnot
> 
> ***
> 
> UPDATE: I was considering deleting this fic from AO3 because the hate I get on it is exhausting, but the people who like it were very upset by that, so instead, I thought I would post a caveat at the beginning to notify new readers what they're up against.
> 
> This fic is supposed to be the most gratuitously ridiculous, campy thing you have ever read. It's dramatic as fuck, it's funny, it's action-packed, and it's full of tropes. This is intentional. It is not meant to be taken seriously. It reads like a 70s action movie. This is also intentional.
> 
> The inception of this fic was me playing around with the idea of an introverted!Dean and an extroverted!Cas. All of the characters are in some way controversial, and this-- you guessed it-- is intentional. This novel is all about nuanced characters in functioning in Hollywood-esque tropes. It is meant to be a character exploration.
> 
> Before you consider leaving nonconstructive criticism or hate, please understand that it's not helpful at all. It's hurtful, and it makes me want to stop writing. I've disabled anon commenting on this fic for this reason, so if you have something to say to me, please navigate your way to my tumblr askbox.
> 
> For those of you who enjoy this fic, or maybe don't enjoy it but support me anyway, I thank you for your kindness. For those of you reading this for the first time, godspeed.
> 
> Love,  
> Betty

Dean Winchester has a grand total of two big secrets:

Secret #1 is that he’s a virgin.

Secret #2 is that he’s gay.

The latter, he feels, is the cause of the former. He’s not what one would call “out” about his sexuality, having an overbearing father who Dean is fairly certain would disown him if he ever found out.

And Dean is quite partial to having both food and shelter.

Dean is a virgin because he’s kept himself off the market purposefully, so as not to take a chance at anyone finding out and ruining both his reputation as the town’s star pitcher (no pun intended), and risking his baseball scholarship.

Sam thinks Dean might be paranoid about that last part, that no one would take away Dean’s scholarship just because he digs dudes, but Dean also has an image to uphold. It’s a heavy burden to bear, but Dean has dreams, and he knows the darkness of this world far too much to trust that it will accept him with open arms for exactly who he is.

Dean’s little brother Sammy is the only other person who knows. He probably knows the first secret too, the kid being MENSA-level smart, and having never seen Dean express any genuine romantic interest in anyone, ever.

When Sam found out, he was 13 years old and Dean was 17. Dean came home from school to find Sam kneeling at the foot of Dean’s bed, rifling through a shoebox of gay porn mags.

Dean thought he was going to die right then and there, that his cover was blown, that this was the end. Their dad would kick him out of the house and he would be thrown to the wolves. Dean trusted that Sammy could keep a secret about as well as his father could keep a bottle of booze in the house without drinking it in a single evening. That is to say, not at all.

“Sam,” Dean had said, eyes wide and heart pounding in his chest, dropping his book bag to the ground. “What the fuck are you _doing_?”

Bless Sam Winchester, he didn’t look shocked, or disappointed, or even confused. He just looked at Dean and asked, “So you don’t have _any_ girl porn?”

Dean could have cried with relief, but even he wasn’t _that_ gay.

Four years later, Dean is a psych major at Wright State University in Dayton, Ohio. Both he and his father work full time at Bobby’s auto shop downtown, so with both school and baseball thrown in the mix, Dean doesn’t have time for dating anyway. Or friends. Or fun. Or even sleep, some days.

Dean finishes up at the shop early today, so he heads to class early—Behavioral Neuroscience—and is stoked that he has a few minutes to shovel a piece of pizza down his throat so that he doesn’t have to suffer through two hours of the history of prefrontal lobotomies on an empty stomach.

On his way into the cafeteria, he sees a group of colorfully-dressed individuals standing outside of the building.

One of them, a guy in a bright blue Hawaiian shirt and a plastic lei, cuts in front of Dean as he reaches for the door and shoves a flyer in Dean’s face. “We’re having a luau!” he exclaims in a voice that is completely contradictory to his attire: it’s deep, gravelly, and far too serious to be excitedly telling Dean about a luau.

Dean crosses his eyes to look at the flyer. It’s as colorful as the gaggle of people behind the man who is standing a bit too close in Dean’s personal space. Dean grabs the piece of paper from the man’s hand and looks at him.

The guy takes off his 80s style Raybans and has eyes that are impossibly bright blue, brighter even than his shirt, which could hail airplanes from the sky.

Dean looks down at the flyer. It reads:

_LGBTQA ALLIANCE FIRST ANNUAL LUAU_

_Next Friday! 7PM!! The Student Union Atrium!!!_

_THERE WILL BE UKELELES!!!! AND FREE FOOD!!!!!_

“Sorry, man, not my thing,” Dean tells him, and hands the flyer back to Blue Eyes, opening the door to the cafeteria.

The dude follows him. “I’m Castiel,” he says, trying to keep up with Dean. “But everyone calls me Cas.”

Dean doesn’t look back at him. He walks faster, and Cas walks faster too. “Cool,” Dean mumbles. He’s painfully hungry and painfully attracted to Blue Eyes, a combination that always leaves him painfully grumptastic.

“I’m head of the LGBTQA Alliance,” Cas adds.

“Cool,” Dean says again.

“What’s your name?”

They round the corner to the cafeteria and Dean grabs a slice of pepperoni pizza from under the heat lamp of the pizza place. “Dean,” he replies, gruff.

Dean walks across to the other side of the cafeteria and grabs a Red Bull from the cooler, slamming the door shut and heading to the cashier.

Cas is still following him. “I think you should come to the luau.”

“Can’t.” Dean sets his food down to take out his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

 “Why not?” Cas asks.

“Work,” Dean replies as he hands the cashier a ten and gets his change.

“What do you do?”

Dean leaves the cafeteria and walks down the hallway toward his class. “I fix cars.”

“You’ll be fixing cars on a Friday night?”

Dean turns on his heel to glare at Cas, and Cas almost runs into him. Unlike every other person on the planet, he doesn’t step out of Dean’s personal space, he just lets Dean stare him down, cross-eyed and silent.

To be fair, Dean realizes, he hasn’t stepped out of Cas’s personal space either.

But Cas started it.

“I’m not gay,” Dean tells him, a bit too stern of a response to a question that wasn’t even asked.

Cas’s lips turn up slightly.

“I’m not,” Dean reiterates.

Without breaking eye contact, Cas holds up his horrifically colorful flyer. “The ‘A’ in LGBTQA stands for ‘ally.’ As in _straight_ ally. I wasn’t trying to imply that you’re gay, Dean.”

Dean’s face softens and he blinks, “Oh.”

Cas shoves the flyer in his hand. “I think you should consider attending,” is all he says before turning away from Dean and walking back toward the cafeteria.

Dean has no idea what just happened, but he knows he just broke closet rule _numero_ _uno_ : don’t get super defensive about your sexuality when it was never in question in the first place.

He shakes his head at himself and takes a seat in class to choke down both his pizza and humiliation.

***

Dean can’t get Castiel’s alarming blue eyes out of his head. He sees them when he jerks off, he sees them behind his eyelids before he falls asleep, he sees them in the back of his mind when he’s at the batting cages or when he has his arms elbow-deep in an engine.

By Friday night, Dean realizes that he is _totally_ fucked.

No one has ever had an effect on him like this before, except for maybe Balthazar in high school, the dreamy star quarterback a grade ahead of him who served as Dean’s ultimate spank bank fodder for many years.

The result of this infatuation with Balthazar is why Dean adamantly avoids using the word “crush.”

And even if he did, he would never admit to having a crush on the Hawaiian-shirt-wearing, sex-haired, blue-eyed, pink-lipped, deep-voiced, stubborn mule who serves as the head of the LGBTQA Alliance at WSU.

So when Dean checks the clock a quarter after 7, snaps his Ramachandran book shut, throws on his shoes and leather jacket, and heads to campus, it’s because he wants to support diversity, and _not_ because he wants to see Castiel again.

***

Dean arrives at the luau at a time he considers to be fashionably late. He’s wearing a white v-neck t-shirt, his dad’s trusty old leather jacket, jeans that may or may not be a little tight around his ass, and his work boots.

He appreciates that he defies the gay stereotype by only owning three pairs of shoes: his work boots, his running shoes, and his baseball cleats. To him, that’s all anyone really needs anyway. Other than the secret partition of his hard drive that has a quantum fuckton of porn on it, Dean Winchester is a minimalist.

He enters the Student Union to find a surprisingly large gathering of people wearing all manner of bright Hawaiian garb.

Dean also defies the college student stereotype by being able to count the number of college parties he’s been to on one hand, living off campus, and working full time.

This might explain why Dean stands awkwardly at the punchbowl, filled with bright red liquid and floating pineapple rings, staring at it as though it will tell him how to interact with other human beings.

Even with his baseball team, Dean is a bit of an outsider, keeping his nose in a textbook between innings, and ducking out before pizza parties and barhopping. His team likes him, he thinks, but they don’t _get_ him. No one does, except for Sammy, and, like his three pairs of shoes, that’s all anyone really needs anyway.

Someone bumps into Dean, nudging him with an elbow. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean looks up to see Castiel, wearing an outfit Dean has trouble comprehending in full: flip-flop sandals, a grass hula skirt, and no shirt. Around his neck is the same plastic lei he was wearing when Dean met him, and atop his head is a crown of flowers.

The motherfucker has a chest and shoulders that look like they were chiseled by God Himself.

Dean swallows.

Eyes wide, he forces his gaze up to meet the obnoxious beacons of blue light that have served as Dean’s ultra-porn for the past week.

And now the dude is right in front of him. Shirtless.

Dean is _so_ fucked.

“Hey,” he replies meekly, with a small smile.

Cas grins at him, all teeth and gums and dimples and mirth, and it’s abso-fucking-lutely adorable. But Dean refuses to admit that to himself. “You came!”

A truly awful choice of words, Dean thinks.

“Yeah,” is all Dean can manage, scratching the back of his neck and looking everywhere he can except at Castiel, willing his face to turn down the temperature of the flames erupting on his face.

“Let me introduce you to everyone!” Cas exclaims.

He takes Dean by the shoulder, turning him around to face the room full of people. Cas’s hand feels like it’s burning a brand into him, and Dean’s poor heart hammers in his chest so loud, he thinks Cas can probably hear it.

Cas shouts, “HEY EVERYONE! THIS IS DEAN!”

Everyone, literally every single person, all two or three dozen of them, turn to Dean and say simultaneously, “HI DEAN!”

Dean knows that when he pitches, there are hundreds, sometimes thousands of eyes trained on him.

But that’s different. All those people are looking at Baseball Dean, the man’s man with an arm like a rifle. They’re all looking onto a façade, an illusion Dean creates of himself. Now, a whole bunch of people are looking at Dean, and Dean doesn’t have an illusion to throw at them. He’s suddenly terrified that they can see right through him, see his disgustingly shameful porn collection, see his infatuation with Balthazar, see the fear he has of his father, see his budding—goddammit— _crush_ on Castiel, the grass-skirted motherfucker still burning a handprint onto his shoulder.

Dean gulps. “Hey,” he says in the exact same way he greeted Castiel. He turns to Cas as the large group of people continue mingling and drinking punch. “Is this a cult?”

Cas’s smile drops and he replies, completely serious, “Yes.” He nods, solemn, his hand _still_ on Dean’s goddamn shoulder. “We are the Cult of the Gay, and we’re here to take your soul and drown it in glitter and the tears of our closeted forefathers.”

Something snaps in Dean and his heart lifts a little in his chest, along with the corners of his lips. He laughs, and matches Cas’s goofy smile, relaxing into Castiel’s grasp, which is now bordering on awkward. But Dean doesn’t care. He feels a kind of electricity around Cas that he can’t quite put a finger on, and he doesn’t think he minds if Castiel never stops touching him.

Cas, still smiling, looks at his hand still clutching Dean’s arm like he forgot it was there. He squeezes his hand around Dean’s bicep and his eyes go wide. “That is…” he swallows. “Quite an arm you have there.”

Dean smiles crookedly at him. It’s Cas’s turn to blush.

“I’m a pitcher,” Dean tells him.

Cas’s eyes shoot up to Dean’s, wide.

“Baseball, dude. I’m a _baseball_ pitcher.”

Cas looks both relieved and disappointed. “Ah.” He finally removes his hand from Dean’s arm and turns toward the punchbowl, filling up a small glass. “So you’re here on a scholarship I take it?”

“Yep,” Dean replies. He really sucks at small talk. And big talk. And all forms of communication in general.

Thankfully, Castiel seems to be an expert in the art of conversation, asking smoothly, “What’s your major?”

“Psych,” Dean shrugs, as though he needs an excuse to enjoy being educated in the science of the mind. “Yours?”

Cas hands him a cup of punch and Dean takes it, their fingers brushing, which sends a tiny shiver up Dean’s spine. “Gender studies, but I’m doing pre-med. What year are you in?”

Dean takes a sip of his punch. “Junior.”

“Hey me too! Are you from around here?”

Dean shakes his head. “Well, kind of. I grew up in Dallas, but my dad moved here to find work when I was a kid. You?”

“I grew up in Russia,” Cas replies with a frown, looking at his feet, but then he immediately perks back up into himself, all bubbles and smiles and flamboyance. “I’m here for school.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Where’s your accent? And why the fuck would anyone voluntarily choose Dayton?”

Cas replies in a Russian accent, “I learned not to use it because I got tired of being asked why I chose Dayton.”

Dean’s dick twitches in his pants. He had no idea he had a Russian kink. Or maybe he just has a Cas’s-voice kink. The result of both this thought and realizing he asked a question he shouldn’t have makes him blush. “Sorry,” he says, staring down at his feet.

Cas smiles at him, warm, and switches back to his American accent. “It’s okay. I’m happy to tell you about it, but most of the buffoons at this school are all, ‘Har har, a foreigner! Let me ask a million dumb questions because I’ll never risk leaving this country once in my entire life!’”

Dean shrugs. “I haven’t been out of the country.”

Cas eyes him. “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

Dean blurts out the first thing that pops into his head, Secret #14,278: “I kinda want to join the Peace Corps when I graduate.” He has never said that out loud before, and he feels like an idiot for doing so. He knows he wouldn’t last one day in rural Africa or Asia, let alone two damn years.

Cas grins. “And here I thought I had you pegged, Dean…”

Again, a truly awful choice of words.

The end of Cas’s statement turns it into a question, which is a sly attempt at asking for Dean’s last name. “Winchester,” Dean supplies.

Cas holds out his hand for Dean to shake. “I’m Castiel Krushnic. It’s really, really nice to meet you, Dean Winchester.” Then he mumbles something in Russian that Dean can’t understand.

Dean looks at him quizzically before replying, “It’s good meeting you too, Cas.”

***

Dean is unused to the concept of “fun,” so when he realizes he’s having it, it hits him like a baseball to the ribcage.

He’s been at the luau now for a couple hours. Cas introduced him to most of the people there, and now they’re sitting on the balcony of the Student Union, drinking punch and eating now-cold Hawaiian pizza.

Dean is next to Castiel, probably a few inches closer to one another than they have to be given the size of the couch they’re on, and across from them are Cas’s friends, Charlie and some dick named Dick.

Dean really digs Charlie. She’s funny and smart and Dean kind of just clicks with her. He finds out that she’s a computer science major with a minor in gender studies. Dick, however, is the ultimate douchebag and Dean can sense some tension between he and Cas as the evening wears on. Dick is a business major, predictably enough, given the fact that on a Friday night, the dude is _still wearing a suit and tie_. To a goddamn _luau_.

When the conversation dies down, Charlie stands and says, “Well I gotta head back to my dorm. It was good meeting you, Dean! I hope you come to more of our events.”

Dick looks from Cas to Dean in what Dean can only assume is a possessive fury over Castiel. Charlie grabs him by the shirtsleeve and tells him, “Come on, Dick, I think it’s time for you to go too.”

He stands and sneers down at Dean with a sickly sweet false smile. “Good meeting you, Dean.”

Dean smiles up at him warmly. “You too… _Dick_.”

Dean sneaks a sidelong glance over to Castiel, who is looking down and fumbling with his glass of punch, which matches the shade of his face.

Dick leans down, lifts Cas’s chin, and kisses him on the cheek, saying quietly, “Goodnight, babe. See you later tonight?”

Cas, not meeting his gaze, still turning around his now-empty glass in his hands, gives him a small nod.

Dean gets all manner of uncomfortable knots in his stomach. His hair stands on end. Something is just _wrong_ about the way Dick looks at Cas. Like Cas is a thing, a possession. He can’t tell what expression his face is making, but he hopes it’s blank, apathetic. As far as anyone here knows, he’s straight, so he shouldn’t be affected by such a scene. Nevertheless, Dean feels his stomach sink, as much as he doesn’t want to admit that he had gotten his hopes up about Castiel.

 _Off the market_ , he reminds himself. It’s for the best.

Charlie smiles apologetically to Dean and drags Dick away from them.

Cas clears his throat, leaning forward, and opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again, not saying anything.

“So…” Dean begins. He swears to God that he physically cannot stop himself from asking the question that comes out of his mouth. “You and Dick are a… thing?”

Cas sighs, and still won’t look up. “It’s… complicated.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Is that what your Facebook status says about him too?”

Glaring, Cas finally looks at Dean, and asks, “Why do you care?”

Dean suddenly realizes that maybe he showed a few too many of his cards, so he looks down at his hands and shrugs. “Not my business. Just that the dude seems kind of like a, you know… dick.”

Cas shrugs too. “He’s not, though. He treats me well enough. I just… didn’t think this through is all. It’s my fault. I’ll tell him you’re straight and then he’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay…” he trails off, and Dean realizes that Cas is speaking more to himself than to Dean.

Dean blinks at him, confused, and sees that Cas is shaking.

Suddenly, Dean puts two and two together and his heart catches in his throat. He’s seen that exact tremble before in someone else, a long, long time ago: his mother. And he thinks he knows exactly what it means. “Cas?”

Cas doesn’t answer, so Dean reaches over to touch his shoulder, asking, “Dick… he doesn’t... you know…?” Dean can’t figure out how to finish the question with anything other than “hit you” so he trails off.

Cas takes a deep breath, straightens his posture and grins at Dean. “So you’re a mechanic? What kind of car do you drive?”

Dean lets his hand drop from Cas’s shoulder. He doesn’t know how to handle these situations, and since he barely knows Cas, he doesn’t think it’s appropriate to butt into his life when he only even has an inkling as to what’s going on. It’s obvious Cas doesn’t want to talk about it, so, like Cas, Dean plasters on a grin and replies, “I drive a 1967 Chevy Impala. She’s my baby. I fixed her up from just a heap of scrap.”

Their conversation continues on, well into the night, lighthearted and easy. Unlike Dean, who is capable of conversing on a total of three topics—baseball, cars, and psych—Cas appears fluent in everything. He knows just enough about cars and baseball that they can have engaging conversations about them. He seems genuinely thrilled when Dean talks passionately about the things he’s into, and asks questions, always wanting to know more, to get additional details. His mind is like a sponge of information, and Dean is happy to have someone to talk to about his hobbies that everyone else finds incredibly dull. When Dean talks to most people, they always change the topic back to themselves, but Cas stays trained on Dean, enrapt in him.

Dean asks Cas about his life in Russia, which is another topic Cas skirts, giving only a minor amount of detail and changing the topic to school, and then back to Dean.

Slowly, the conversation dies down and Cas looks around. They’re the only people left in the building. The luau decorations have all been cleaned up, and the only lights left on are the emergency ones.

“When did that happen?” Cas asks, nodding to the lights and the empty building.

Dean checks his watch. “ _Shit_ , it’s 2AM. I gotta go. Got practice at 8.” He stands to leave, and Cas looks up at him, eyes filled with wariness.

“Do you live on campus?” Cas asks.

Dean scratches the back of his neck. “No, I live with my dad and brother downtown by the shop.”

Cas stands too and smiles. “So, um… no homo, but can I have your number?”

Dean grins at him, and holds out his hand for Cas to give him his cell phone. Cas goes for his back pocket, realizes he’s still wearing a grass skirt, and reaches under the waistband to pull his phone out of an invisible, slightly suspicious pocket, then hands it to Dean.

Dean chuckles and unlocks Cas’s phone to find that Cas has 12 texts from Dick and 5 missed phone calls. His smile fades, and he goes to the contacts and adds his number, not saying a word to Cas about Dick.

Dean hands his phone back to Cas, saying, “Text me sometime. I want to come the next LBQTGMSTVRXQLP event that you have.”

Cas laughs, and corrects, “It’s LGBTQA.”

“Sorry, I’m kind of dumb about this stuff. What does that stand for?” Dean asks.

“Lesbian, gay, bi, trans, queer or questioning, and ally or asexual.”

Dean shuffles his feet and looks down. “Sorry if this is too personal a question, but which one of those are you?”

Cas gives him his gummy grin. “I’m gay, Dean.”

Dean tries to push down the little flutter that his heart makes, and the small flare of envy at Cas’s ability to so easily say those words aloud. “Cool,” he nods. “Well if you want to hang out sometime, let me know. We can go for coffee or whatever and you can teach me more about LGB… TQ… A… stuff,” Dean recites slowly.

“Sure,” Cas replies. “I’ll text you.”

Dean realizes that they’re standing a bit closer together than bros normally stand, and he steps away, toward the door, reluctant to leave.

“Cool.” Dean takes another step backward. “Yeah.” Another step. He bumps into a side table, looks down, and steps around it. “See you later, Cas.”

“See you later, Dean,” Cas replies, gummy grin still on his face.

Finally Dean turns away and heads to his car to go home, dizzy with his newfound adoration of Castiel Krushnic.


	2. Chapter 1: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so after a truly overwhelming volume of feedback, I wrote the first chapter of Cas's POV in kind of a hurry at the Auckland airport so my apologies for typos and errors. Let me know what you think!
> 
> I'll post the next chapter of Dean's POV when I get home! Assuming you still like it!

Castiel Krushnic is an optimist. He makes the best out of bad situations, and he always appreciates the finer things in life.

For example, Cas enjoys drinking fine wine, wearing fine fabrics, and staring woefully at the truly _fine_ ass of Dean Winchester, sexy sex god extraordinaire who sat in front of him in his freshman year art history class.

Of course, back then, Cas had been too shy to speak to him. He had just immigrated to the States and was not yet fluent in English; he kept up well enough in classes and he could listen well, but he wasn’t great with conversing at that point.

So every day, Cas made the best of his bad situation and his terrible art history class by daydreaming about becoming the boyfriend of WSU’s new star pitcher.

After his first quarter, Cas didn’t see much of Dean around school anymore. As far as he could tell, Dean wasn’t in any social circles, he didn’t hang out with friends, and he never updated his Facebook (publicly, as far as Cas could see). Dean Winchester was a total enigma to Castiel. Every now and again when he was bored in the springtime, Cas would go watch Dean’s games, but even though his English had improved, he still couldn’t imagine just walking up to Dean and saying, “Hi, I’m Castiel Krushnic and I think your ass is the stuff of poetry.”

As Charlie puts it, Cas has it _bad_ for Dean.

So when Castiel is standing by Charlie, Bella, Meg, and Ruby advertising the upcoming gay luau, Cas literally cannot help himself when he sees Dean approaching the cafeteria.

It’s like he’s lost all control of his body and higher mental faculties. He cuts in front of Dean. “We’re having a luau!”

Dean starts, and looks at Cas, bewildered, as though he’d been in deep thought and Cas interrupted him.

Cas can feel Charlie’s eyes boring holes into the back of his head, her razor sharp laser beams sending him telepathic thoughts of, “ _Did you SERIOUSLY just walk up to your TOTALLY HETEROSEXUAL MANCRUSH AND INVITE HIM TO A GAY LUAU? What is WRONG with you?”_

“ _Stuff it, Charlie,_ ” Cas telepathically replies back.

Dean takes the flyer from Cas’s hand and reads it, then quickly hands it back. “Sorry, man, not my thing.”

Cas ignores the sharp drop of disappointment he feels, and continues not being able to control himself as he follows Dean into the cafeteria, staring at his ass the whole time.

Cas has had a really bad day. He got into a fight with Dick—thankfully, sans fists this time—and he was late for class. He got a paper back to find he got a B on it, and he realized this morning that he hasn’t heard from Anna in exactly a month.

So Castiel is pretty damn grumptastic when Dean immediately dismisses him.

Cas makes the best of bad situations though, so he finds his feet following Dean’s, because what the hell does he have to lose?

Nothing. The answer to that question is sadly, tragically, heart-wrenchingly _nothing_.

“I’m Castiel,” Cas tells him. “But everyone calls me Cas.”

Dean walks faster. Cas keeps up because, really, fuck this. “Cool,” Dean replies.

“I’m head of the LGBTQA Alliance,” Cas says.

“Cool,” Dean replies again.

When they turn the corner to enter the cafeteria, Cas gets the brilliant idea to ask, “What’s your name?” in an attempt to hide his intense crush on this man whom he may or may not have been sort of stalking for the past two years.

Dean grabs a slice of pizza and mumbles, “Dean.”

Success! Now it won’t be weird that Cas knows this fact. But it’s still pretty weird that Cas knows Dean’s batting average and his preference for apple pie.

Which is so endearingly _American_ , it makes Cas’s poor heart flutter at the thought.

Dean grabs a Red Bull and goes to pay for his pizza. Cas thinks he might be losing Dean’s interest and definitely gaining Dean’s irritation, so he concludes, “I think you should come to the luau.” Translation: _I would really like for you to come to the luau because you are seriously like a beacon of light in the darkness of my craptastic life._

“Can’t,” Dean replies.

Cas’s heart sinks even further. “Why not?”

“Work.” Dean still won’t look at Cas.

“What do you do?” Cas asks.

“I fix cars.” Dean storms out of the cafeteria, and Cas keeps following him.

Cas furrows his brow. “You’ll be fixing cars on a Friday night?”

Dean suddenly turns on Cas, and Cas looks up to Dean, eyes wide, hoping to hell that Dean didn’t just catch him staring at his ass. Because he truly believes that _no one_ on earth could have the willpower not to stare at God’s finest work of art.

Cas’s breath catches in his throat as Dean stares him down, irate.

“I’m not gay,” Dean tells him, way too angrily.

Castiel stifles the smile that threatens to erupt on his face. Textbook closet case. He hopes.

Dean looks down at Cas’s lips and swallows, then tears his eyes back up to meet Cas’s. “I’m not,” he claims, pitiful.

Cas holds up the flyer and says, ”The ‘A’ in LGBTQA stands for ‘ally.’ As in _straight_ ally. I wasn’t trying to imply you’re gay, Dean.”

Castiel keeps a straight face as Charlie’s voice sings, “ _Liar liar pants on fire_ ,” in his head. He tells mind-Charlie to stuff it again.

Dean’s face softens. “Oh.”

Cas shoves the flyer in Dean’s hand and tells him, “I think you should consider attending,” before that quiet little voice in his head—the nagging one that takes him away from his optimism and throws him to the wolves of reality—tells him to just give the fuck up already and move on. Closet case or not, Cas could never date Dean Winchester. For a lot of reasons.

Translation: _Please please PLEASE be there._

***

Charlie, the best best friend a little gay Russian boy could ever ask for, consoles Cas as he recounts his momentary insanity during his first and short bout of interaction with Dean Winchester.

They’re in Charlie’s dorm room, gorging themselves on pizza and random YouTube videos. Cas finishes his story and Charlie whistles. “Well that’s a dilly of a pickle.”

“Do people really say that here? Is that seriously a thing that people say?” Cas asks.

Charlie shrugs. “I do.”

“Gross.”

“Shut up,” she says. “So what are you going to do?”

Castiel sighs. “Nothing, I guess. I’d bet you my first-born that he’s not going to show up and then I’m going to get all sad and leave my own gay luau early.”

Charlie grabs another slice of pizza. “I’ll take that bet. Mostly out of irony.”

“Sure. Benedict Timothy Carlton Cumberbatch the Second is all yours,” Cas says around a big bite of food.

“Awesome,” Charlie replies. “But I’m changing his name.”

Castiel keeps himself busy the rest of the week and tries not to let himself dwell on Dean. Then he realizes that dwelling on Dick is ten times worse than dwelling on Dean, so he lets himself lament for a few days before buoying back to his happy, bubbly self, distracting himself with reorganizing his massive walk-in closet full of designer clothes he doesn’t actually give a flying fuck about.

The night of the luau, he’s destroying his organizational masterpiece, trying on different Hawaiian outfits and then shredding them off of him again in a vain attempt to look fabulous for Dean Winchester, as though a man in a coconut bra could turn him gay.

Cas turns to Charlie, coconut bra in hand. He opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Charlie says sharply, “No.”

“Why not?” Cas whines.

“You are _not_ wearing a coconut bra when there is a greater than a .05% chance that Dean sexy-sex-god Winchester might be there!”

“But I look so cute in it!” Cas stomps his foot.

Charlie eyes him. “Absolutely not.”

Cas pouts. “Fine.” He turns in the mirror, and takes his lei and flower crown off of their hooks on his door and puts them on. He’s already wearing his grass skirt. “What about this?” he asks, turning back to Charlie.

Charlie evaluates him, looking him up and down. “Yeah, actually. That works. But the coconut bra _stays here_.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “You are _so_ _boring_!”

Charlie throws a french fry at him. “Shut up and hula for me, you sexy Russian!”

Awkwardly attempting to hula, Cas replies, “That is the most confusing sentence I’ve ever heard.”

***

About a half hour into the luau, it’s going much better than Castiel could possibly imagine. Everyone is dressed up and having a good time; people are playing the games Cas and Charlie came up with; and Ruby, Bella, and Meg aren’t all screaming at each other.

The only downside is that Dick shows up, to “support” Cas, whatever the hell that means.

He is so obviously uncomfortable surrounded by outwardly genderqueer people, even though he himself is out as a gay man, and as far as Cas knows, has never had to hide it.

Charlie, bless her heart, has him corralled with a group of other gay business majors, so Cas is free to flit around, mingling with everyone and making sure they’re having a good time.

Then Charlie rips Cas away from his conversation with an abrupt, “Excuse me,” and a polite smile, spinning Cas around and pushing him into a corner. “He’s here,” she whispers urgently.

“Who?” Cas asks.

Charlie scoffs. “Don’t be a dumbass, Castiel. Dean! As in manly man mechanic baseball superstar Dean!”

Cas gasps. “You’re _kidding_.”

“I’m totally not!” Charlie exclaims.

“Where?”

Charlie spins Cas around and pushes him toward Dean, who is staring at the punch bowl like he’s expecting it to talk to him.

Dean looks more out of place than Dick does, and Cas finds it kind of adorable.

Hands shaking, he approaches Dean and nudges his shoulder. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean looks away from the apparently sentient punch and stares at Cas a moment before replying, “Hey.”

“You came!” Cas exclaims.

A brief mysterious expression flashes on Dean’s face before he says, “Yeah,” and looks away.

And because Castiel is a total jerk, he spins Dean around and introduces him to a giant crowd of LGBT-oriented people, and revels in Dean’s absolute and utterly adorable stage fright.

Dean swallows. “Hey.” Then he turns back around to Cas and asks, “Is this a cult?”

Cas replies and makes Dean laugh, and then Cas squeezes Dean’s bicep, not even aware his hand is there, nor how long it’s been there, and _sweet Jesus_ that’s some muscle. Cas tries not to imagine Dean shirtless. And pantsless. And fucking him on the buffet table that’s next to them.

Their small talk is short and sweet and borders on flirtatious, and everything is good until Cas makes the stupid mistake of mentioning he’s from Russia. His stomach does a little painful flip when he thinks about Anna, and the sad realization that it doesn’t matter how close he gets to other people, he’ll never be able to open up to anyone about the truth of his situation.

…even though Dean is staring at him with earnest curiosity and a little bit of shy awkwardness and it makes Cas’s heart do some completely new things in his chest.

When Cas successfully navigates the conversation away from his past, he asks Dean where he would like to go in the world, and Dean tells him, “I kinda want to join the Peace Corps when I graduate.”

Cas grins. Dean is a hottie with a heart of gold. “And here I thought I had you pegged, Dean…”

Cas realizes he's not supposed to know Dean's last name yet (or entire wardrobe, or preference for bacon cheeseburgers) because the still haven't been formally introduced.

"Winchester," Dean supplies.

Cas holds out his hand for Dean to shake. “I’m Castiel Krushnic. It’s really, really nice to meet you, Dean Winchester.” Then he adds, " _Ваш торец является материалом поэзии._ "

 _Your ass is the stuff of poetry_.

Dean looks at him quizzically before taking his hand and replying, “It’s good meeting you too, Cas.”

***

They move to the balcony and steal an entire pizza for themselves, when, to Cas’s utter dismay, Dick removes himself from his boring business people conversation to sit down with them and eye Dean suspiciously.

He holds his hand out for Dean to shake. “I’m Dick Roman. And you are?”

Thank God, Cas thinks, he didn’t introduce himself as Cas’s boyfriend. Or fiancée. Or whatever Dick thinks he is to Cas.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean replies.

Dick eyes him, and looks to Cas, then back to Dean. “Baseball, right? You pitch for WSU?”

“Yep,” Dean replies.

Again, bless Charlie Bradbury for rushing over and easing the tension that Cas hopes Dean doesn’t notice.

“Hey guys! Who wants punch?” She sets down four glasses of punch on the table in front of them and takes a seat next to Dick.

With Charlie there, the conversation is pleasant and she steers it with aplomb. They discuss, light-heartedly, everything from terrible professors they’ve had to their GPAs.

After a couple hours, Charlie tries to force Dick to leave so that Cas and Dean can have some private time, and she stares at Cas with the I’m-sorry-your-boyfriend-slash-my-boss-is-such-a-tool-bag look from behind Dick as he tells Dean it was nice meeting him.

“You too… _Dick_ ,” Dean replies, and Cas smirks at the emphasis Dean puts on that last word.

To Castiel’s _horror_ , Dick leans down and kisses Cas’s cheek, saying, “Goodnight, babe. See you later tonight?”

 _Oh no_ , Cas thinks. That’s code. That’s very, very bad code for, “ _You are in really deep shit_.”

And when Cas is in really deep shit, it usually involves physical pain. Knots bundle up in Cas’s stomach and he stares at his punch glass, twirling it around in his shaking fingers, trying to force himself to take steady, even breaths. He can’t let Dean see him like this, so frazzled by something Dean isn’t supposed to ever know about.

It was so stupid inviting Dean here, inviting Dean into his chaotic non-life, and now that Dean can finally, truly _see_ Cas, Cas just wants to hide away forever so Dean can forget about him and move on.

Dick finally leaves, and Dean asks hesitantly, “So… you and Dick are a… thing?”

Cas thinks he notes a bit of jealousy in Dean’s voice, but it’s probably just wishful thinking on his part. “It’s… complicated.”

“Is that what your Facebook status says about him too?” Dean asks with a scoff.

That’s _definitely_ jealousy, Cas thinks. “Why do you care?” Cas doesn’t care how petty he sounds. His heart has just sunken completely into his gut with the realization that he’s in trouble with Dick, and he will never in a million years be able to escape him. So it doesn’t matter if Dean Winchester is gay or straight or pan or bi or demi or anything else, because Castiel Krushnic is officially off the market.

“Not my business.” Dean shrugs. “Just that the dude seems kind of like a, you know… dick.”

Cas shrugs too, defeated. _You have no idea_ , Cas thinks, but he says, “He’s not, though. He treats me well enough. I just… didn’t think this through is all. It’s my fault. I’ll tell him you’re straight and then he’ll be fine. It’ll all be fine. Everything’s okay. Everything’s okay…” Cas realizes he’s babbling as he imagines the fury Dick is going to release on him when he gets home.

“Cas?” Dean touches Cas’s shoulder and brings him back to reality. “Dick… he doesn’t… you know…”

Cas knows the end of that question is “beat you mercilessly,” so he doesn’t answer it. Instead, he takes a deep breath and thinks happy thoughts, bouncing back into himself and asking Dean, “So you’re a mechanic? What kind of car do you drive?”

Thankfully, Dean doesn’t press the issue, and they have a lovely, simple conversation that two totally normal people would have upon first meeting one another. Cas is surprised that Dean is everything he expected him to be and so much more.

Charlie is still absolutely right: Cas has it _bad_ for Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback makes my heart soar. Sore? Yeah, both. GIVE TO ZIM.


	3. Chapter 2: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God bless the SFO airport for free wifi. 12 more hours of travel left and then I'm home free! So I thought since I had a few minutes, I'd post the next chapter. Again, apologies for typos, etc. I only had time to read over it once.
> 
> Oh, and the Quad Gods are a legit thing. Unfortunately, I did not make them up.

The next day, Dean checks his phone as often as humanly possible for as many reasons he can think of: he wants to check the time, see if Sammy texted him, look at the most recent MLB scores, check Facebook—not that he ever has anything to check on Facebook, having only a handful of friends on it in the first place.

He absolutely refuses to admit that he’s waiting for Castiel to text him, and because of this, he also refuses to admit why he feels more and more disappointed as his long Saturday drags on, textless.

After practice, he heads to the shop. Halfway through his shift, Bobby shouts at him, “Boy, if you don’t get off that damn phone, I’ll chuck it at a gor-damn wall.”

“Sorry, Bobby,” Dean mumbles, shoving his cell phone in his pocket and bending over the engine of a Corolla.

“The hell is so important anyway?” Bobby asks, opening a can of pop and meandering over to him.

“Nothing,” Dean says. “Checking, um… my email… to see if my grades have been posted.”

Bobby nods, looking over the engine. “Well, just be patient. They’re not gonna change between the time you see ‘em here and when you get home.”

“Sure thing, Bobby,” Dean replies, and hopes Bobby doesn’t notice the sadness in his voice.

***

When Dean gets home, Sammy has dinner waiting for him. Their dad is off doing God-knows-what, and Sam knows Dean’s Saturdays are always so crazy that Dean doesn’t usually have time to eat.

Dean walks inside and smells mac ‘n cheese cooking, just the way he likes it, with bacon on top and garlic bread on the side.

They live in a small house on the edge of the bad part of town. The house is a century old and a bit run-down, but Dean uses what little spare time he has to fix it up as best he can. It’s livable. It’s home.

The Winchesters are not men of many words, but damn if they aren’t efficient. Dean and Sam take turns making dinner and grocery shopping. Sam pays the bills. Dean fixes up the house. John brings home his fair share of money and isn’t around a whole lot. He’s usually off gambling away what little money he has to spare, drinking, going to strip clubs; wherever his tortured, flighty soul takes him. Despite his overall absence, Dean has no current complaints about him. He comes to every single baseball game, he got Dean his job at the shop, and he’s always done what was needed to make sure Dean and Sam have a roof over their heads and food in their mouths.

Their family isn’t the most traditional, but it’s the hand Dean has been dealt, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Dean breathes in deeply when he walks inside the little house. “Hey, Sammy. Smells great.”

Sam is at the oven, looming over it because he shot up in height a couple years ago and now the guy is just a long stick of awkward, gangly limbs. He’s stirring a big pot of noodles, and says, “Food’s up in a few.”

“Awesome,” Dean replies. “I’m gonna go get cleaned up.”

His hand twitches out of habit to reach for his phone, but he’s covered in motor oil so he waits until he scrubs his hands clean before touching his phone.

When he dries off his hands, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks his text messages.

His heart sinks. Again. For the millionth time that day.

Maybe the connection he felt with Cas was completely wrong. Maybe Cas is just really friendly to everyone. Even so, if Cas does on the off-chance like him back, he seems to have a thing with Dick, and Dean can’t date anyway without rustling up a shit storm that he would rather avoid.

So really it makes no sense that Dean has waited all day for Cas to text him, because nothing can come of it anyway. Dean doesn’t have time for friends, let alone a boyfriend.

Like his dad says, head down, nose to the grindstone.

He walks into the small dining room, which is actually just an extension of the kitchen, and sits down, setting his cell phone next to him on the table, as Sammy puts a giant bowl of piping-hot, cheesy goodness in front of him.

“This is great, thanks Sammy,” Dean tells him.

“No problem,” Sam replies around a mouthful of garlic bread as he sits down across from Dean. “How was work?”

Dean blows on a forkful of noodles and checks his phone. “It was okay. How was… whatever you did today?”

Sam eyes him suspiciously, darting his attention from Dean to Dean’s phone. “I applied for some part time jobs.”

Dean turns off the screen of his phone to take his bite of food and then compulsively checks it again, willing it to vibrate.

They eat in silence for a few minutes. Between every bite, Dean checks his phone.

Sam wrinkles his forehead in confusion. “What’s up with you?”

Dean looks up at him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re checking your phone every two seconds. Which is weird because more often than not, you forget your cell phone in the morning and don’t even realize it until you come home at the end of the day.”

Dean shrugs and takes another bite.

Sam, ever the motherfucking psychic, grins and asks, “Did you meet a guy?”

Dean chokes around his bite of food. “What?”

“That’s what I do when I give girls my number,” Sam replies, nodding toward the phone. “I wait around all day for them to text me. So what’s he like?”

Dean gapes at him. “The fuck?”

“Oh come on, Dean. It’s about damn time someone caught your attention. Tell me about him.” And the motherfucker actually, really, honest-to-God puts his elbow on the table and leans into his fist, wide-eyed with a goofy grin on his face.

Dean rolls his eyes. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

Sam waits for Dean to continue.

Dean leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, looking everywhere around the room but at Sam. Finally, he mumbles, “His name is Castiel. He’s head of the LGBTQA Alliance at school. He’s a gender studies major doing pre-med. He’s Russian.”

“Wow,” Sam replies.

Dean nods. “Yeah I know.”

“Is he dreamy?” Sam asks.

Dean rolls his eyes and groans, “Oh shut the fuck up and eat your dinner.”

Sam snickers. “Well I hope he texts you soon.”

“Me too,” Dean replies quietly, checking his phone again.

***

Dean doesn’t hear from Cas on Sunday either, so by Monday, he is again painfully grumptastic. He skips his 8AM Cognition class and sleeps in, having stayed up late the night before watching Dr. Sexy reruns and—despite what Sam says—totally _not_ moping.

He finally wakes up, showers, skips shaving, and rolls onto campus early for his noon Bio lab.

On his way to the cafeteria to pick up a burger and a pop, he passes through the quad to find the Quad Gods shouting their extremist evangelical mumbo jumbo.

“Sinners!” one of the Quad Gods shout. “You’re all sinners! Follow the good Lord’s word and cast your demons out!”

Dean stops for a moment to stand with the group of people ogling them and laughing.

The Quad Gods, from Dean’s understanding, are a group of local churchgoers who use the public grounds of the campus to shout their hate-filled message. They are anti-feminist, anti-gay, anti-choice Baptists or Mormons or some other religious sect Dean doesn’t understand. They just like to get a rise out of the students and, most of the time, Dean just ignores them.

But today, there is a reason a huge group of people are surrounding them.

A man with a stony, serious expression is pacing in front of them, face painted in a bright Pride rainbow, carrying a giant sign that says, “GOD LOVES FAGS.”

Dean has to blink a few times to realize that this man is Castiel Krushnic.

Jaw loose, Dean stares at Cas pacing back and forth. Someone in the audience starts to clap for him, and the rest of the crowd follows suit.

After several moments, one of the Quad Gods—a thirty-something year old guy in a trucker hat—hops down from the long stone bench on which they’re perched, right in front of Cas. “You’re _all_ gonna burn in hell. God _hates_ fags!” He saunters into Cas’s space, looming over him.

Cas, painted so bright that he would stand out even at a Pride Parade, looks the man in the eye and replies simply, “God loves us all.”

The man steps forward and shoves Cas, hard enough that Cas falls to the ground.

Before Dean can think about what he’s doing, in an intense and sudden fit of rage, he drops his book bag, strides in three quick steps over to the Quad God who shoved Cas, and punches him square in the jaw.

The man stumbles backward, and Dean uses his lack of balance to shove him so that he falls down onto the bench behind him.

The crowd watches on, silent and completely useless.

Dean runs over to Castiel, who is sitting up and rubbing the back of his head.

 “Cas? Are you okay?” Dean holds out his hand for Cas to take, and he takes it, standing up.

“Yeah, I’m fine, but…” he gestures toward something behind Dean.

Dean turns around to the man taking a swing at him. He ducks out of it and uses his bent position to tackle the guy to the ground. Straddling him, Dean punches him until he can feel the man’s nose shatter under his raw knuckles.

In the distance, he can hear the audience cheer him on. Then he feels two pairs of strong arms pull him away from the man unconscious on the ground.

He yanks his arms away from them and shakes his head to get his wits back and settle his anger, gazes across the several dozen people cheering at him, and grabs his book bag off the ground, storming off to class.

Cas is okay, and he doesn’t want to get suspended for assault, so he needs to just high-tail it the fuck out of there.

“Dean!” Cas shouts behind him.

Dean stops and turns around to face Cas. “I gotta get to class, man.”

“I know,” Cas begins, hand still on the back of his head. “I just wanted to thank you.”

Dean can’t process these kinds of situations. He’s a simple dude. Getting butt-hurt that some guy he’s met a total of two times didn’t text him over the weekend, then risking his scholarship to protect that same guy who chose to paint himself into a rainbow in an effort of civil disobedience, is _not_ in Dean’s repertoire of social schemas that he is capable of navigating.

“’Sfine,” Dean tells him, shrugging. He looks up at Cas, who is wobbling on his feet and blinking into space. Dean furrows his brow. “Hey are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah I’m… I’m okay...” Cas’s blinking starts to get slower and he’s teetering so much, Dean thinks he might fall down.

“Hey man, let’s get you somewhere you can lay down. I think you might have a concussion.” Dean puts Cas’s arm over his shoulders and wraps his own arm around Cas’s waist, supporting him into the cafeteria.

“Model UN room, Millett Hall,” Cas slurs.

Dean guides him past the cafeteria and finds the Model UN room, which is big and empty and has a couch.

Dean gently helps Cas to lay down and goes to the freezer to make an icepack – an unfortunate skill he learned from years of batting for pitchers in training – then turns back to Castiel and puts it in his open hand. “Hold that to the back of your head.”

Cas sits up a little and lifts the icepack to his head, wincing.

Dean crosses to the small sink and wets a bunch of paper towels. He kneels by Cas and says, “You can’t fall asleep, okay? And I’m gonna take this paint off of you because I don’t want that guy coming back.”

Cas nods slowly, eyes closed, and Dean reaches up to wipe the paint off of Cas’s face.

He starts at Cas’s forehead, and Cas leans into Dean’s touch like a cat. When he gets to Cas’s left eye, he winces again, and Dean sees why he painted his face in the first place.

Dean gasps, pulling his hand away.

The paint is covering up a large, nasty black eye. “Cas…”

Cas opens his eyes wide, pupils massively dilated, and stares at Dean, vulnerable, panicked. He grabs Dean’s wrist, poised above him, and pleads, “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Tell me what happened,” Dean commands, stern. A knot builds in his stomach and his heart is hammers in his chest with that same intense, immediate rage with which he assaulted the Quad God moments before.

Cas looks away and swallows. “I fell.”

“On a sharp rock. Directly on your eye. I don’t buy it, Cas.” Dean continues wiping the paint off of Cas’s face for lack of knowing what else to do with his hands. All they’re itching to do is strangle Dick Roman.

Forehead wrinkled, Cas closes his eyes. “Just trust me, Dean. It was my fault.”

“Trust you?” Dean asks. “We’ve met a grand total of three times. One of them, I was introduced to your wacko, possessive boyfriend. And now you’ve got a black eye. So no, I’m not going to trust you here, because I’ve seen these signs too many damn times before.”

Cas opens his eyes to stare at Dean, big and curious and concussed. “You have?”

“Yeah.” Dean tilts Cas’s head to the side to wipe the paint off of his jaw line. “When I was a kid. With my mom.”

“You said you live with your brother and father. Where’s your mother?” Cas takes Dean’s hand from his face and brings it down to rest on Cas’s chest, holding it.

Dean lets him, and stares at their hands now huddled together on top of the slow rise and fall of Cas’s chest. Dean can feel Cas’s heart beat, quick and hard, underneath his palm. He takes a breath, and looks back up at Cas. “She’s dead.”

“How did she die?” Cas asks.

Dean shrugs. “Not sure, really. I was young. They found her car wrapped around a tree. No one knows what caused the accident, or if it was even an accident at all.” He lowers his eyes again and tries to steel his heart against the onslaught of emotions that thinking of his mother usually drudges up.

“Oh my god, Dean. I’m so sorry.” Cas weaves his fingers in between Dean’s, and Dean lets him do that too, even though he both ignores the butterflies in his stomach and momentarily forgets he told Cas he was straight.

Dean shrugs again. “It was a long time ago.” Over the years, Dean has learned that this is the only acceptable response to the dreaded ‘I’m sorry your mother died in a horrible accident and/or killed herself and you’ll never, ever know the truth’ that everyone gives him, paraphrased. He drags his eyes up to Cas’s and sees nothing but sympathy. He blinks. “Wait. You’re doing that thing again.”

Cas furrows his brow. “What thing?”

“Where you divert the topic back to me to avoid talking about yourself. Now tell me what the hell is going on so I can help you. I don’t even have your damn number because you never texted me, so unless you tell me right now, I’m going to be totally in the dark.” Without thinking, Dean lifts his hand and brushes Cas’s hair away from his eyes.

It is probably one of the least straight things he has ever done. And the secret partition on his hard drive indicates that is quite a feat.

Cas shifts and curls up around Dean—again like a cat—not meeting his gaze. “I couldn’t text you. I wanted to, Dean. I really, really did. But Dick took away my phone when he saw your number in it. I was stupid. I should have changed your name in my contacts.” Cas shakes his head. “I’ll never learn. But I’m supposed to get it back tonight… sans your number, I’m guessing.”

“I’ll write it down for you, and you can put me under a different name, like Charlie’s work cell or something, I don’t know.” Dean shrugs.

Cas nods. “That could work. I’ll think of something.”

Dean’s eyes widen as he puts two and two together again. He breaks away from Castiel completely, standing up and gaping at Cas. “Your eye. That was my fault. Dick did that because of me.”

Cas sits up abruptly. “No, Dean. I promise you it wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

Dean shakes his head, and kneels down next to Cas, frantic. “Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me right now that Dick Roman didn’t hit you because he found my number in your phone.”

Cas swallows and looks away again.

“Dammit, Cas!” He stands up, and paces around the room, rubbing his face with his hand.

Dean really has no idea what to do. On one hand, he wants to murder Dick Roman in cold blood. On the other, more rational hand, Cas has not specifically confirmed any of Dean’s suspicions, and Dean doesn’t expect he’s willing to.

He could back out right now and forget he ever met Cas. He could get out of this damn mess, go back to his simple life of baseball, cars, and pretending to like girls.

Then he remembers his mother, in a heap, crying on the kitchen floor as Dean watched from the staircase, his father throwing dishes at her, glasses, dragging her up by the hair and screaming in her face.

Dean had completely forgotten this memory until this very moment, and it hits him like a brick. It socks him right in the gut and for a moment, he can’t breathe. He’s no longer in the Model UN room, he’s in his old house in Dallas, four years old, face pressed against the banister columns of the staircase, aching in guilt that he can’t save his mother, and he can’t muster up the courage to face his father.

To this day, he still can’t face his father. Can’t speak the words out loud that he’s attracted to men. Can’t tell him that he doesn’t want to play baseball or fix cars. He wants to join the Peace Corps and then become a goddamn school counselor so that he can help kids like himself deal with all the dark, horrible shit in the world that he had to go through all by himself, while taking care of Sammy at the same time.

Dean is no longer that four year old boy watching his dad beat his mom. Dean doesn’t have to stand in that stairwell in observance anymore.

But he also doesn’t want to be the cause of Cas getting into shit with Dick.

He sighs.

“Dean?” Cas asks, standing slowly and crossing over to Dean, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Dean looks at him, pained. “I can’t be the reason you get any more black eyes. But…” Dean turns completely toward Cas, takes his hand from Dean’s shoulder and entwines their fingers together again. “I want to be here for you. So if you can find a way to stay safe and have my number, I want you to have it, and I want you to know that I’ll answer every call, every text, at any hour. I’ll be there at a moment’s notice. I promise.”

Dean lets go of Cas reluctantly, and takes a receipt and a pen out of his back pocket, scrawling down his phone number.

“Dean…” Cas trails off.

He hands Cas the piece of paper. “You should memorize this.”

Instead of taking the paper, Cas wraps his hands around Dean’s outstretched one, bringing it to his lips and kissing the back of it softly. He says something quietly in Russian.

Dean smiles crookedly, heart fluttering pitifully in his chest. “I don’t know what that means.”

Cas kisses his hand again. “It translates roughly to, ‘thank you, my savior.’”

Dean huffs a laugh, mirthless. “I haven’t saved you from anything.”

“You really have, Dean. You’ve done more than you know.” Cas steps closer to Dean and their faces are inches apart. Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and he makes the mistake of glancing at the clock. Out of his dichotomous, autonomic fight or flight responses that pop up in moments like these—in this case, kiss or flight—he chooses flight.

He’s five minutes late for his lab.

And he’s a coward.

Dean steps back quickly and moves to grab his book bag. “I gotta get to class. Call me. Text me. Whatever. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

He turns away and places his hand on the doorknob, opening the door. When he turns back to look at Cas, Cas is wearing his brilliant, fake, shit-eating grin that he wears in public like a suit.

The air in the room has changed when Cas replies, “Sure thing, Dean. See you later.”

Dean nods and flees the room, booking it to class.

Rome wasn’t built in a day, he reminds himself as he replays the scene in his head. He was almost sure Cas wanted to kiss him then, but Dean is also oblivious and has been accused by Sam on more than one occasion of confusing reality with porn, so it’s entirely possible that he really fucked up by running away, or really fucked up by mistakenly thinking Cas maybe possibly perhaps has feelings for him.

Either way, he probably fucked up.

But at least he _knows_ Cas can contact him now if he needs someone in his corner, and that’s enough to make Dean rest easy.

***

That evening, Dean is finishing up at the shop when his phone buzzes in his pocket. He ducks out of Bobby’s view behind a car and checks his phone.

_Hey, Charlie! I was wondering if I could take you up on your offer to tutor me in programming? Maybe we can meet up for lunch tomorrow at the Trolley Stop? Noonish?_

Dean blinks.

He assumes this is Cas because he doesn’t recognize the number. He also has no idea how to type like Charlie. All he knows about her is that she’s nerdy and digs chicks, so he responds as generically as possible.

_Sure thing. See you there._

The response is immediate.

_Sounds great. Thanks!_

Dean puts his phone away and stifles the urge to dance with giddy anticipation. He has no focus as he attempts to finish up his tasks at work, and Bobby, seeing his lack of attention, tells him to go home fifteen minutes early.

That night, Dean can’t sleep.

So instead, he jerks off thinking about wrapping his legs around Cas’s waist and being fucked into oblivion, staring into the soulful blue eyes that happily haunt his waking hours.

He tries very hard not to imagine that one of them is bruised.

***

Dean gets to the Trolley Stop, a dingy bar on the hipster side of town, ten minutes early. Cas is already there, sitting at a table on the back patio and staring at the menu.

In addition to his Raybans, he’s wearing—to both Dean’s delight and utter dismay—a white dress shirt with a blue striped tie and matching suspenders. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow and Dean thinks he might have a fucking heart attack.

He looks up when Dean approaches.

Dean swallows, rethinking his own wardrobe choice of an old Cincinnati Reds shirt and jeans.

“Dean,” Cas grins at him. “You came.”

As Dean pulls out a chair and sits down, he thinks back to his incredible series of orgasms the night before, the cause of which were the man currently sitting in front of him. “I did, yeah.” He clears his throat. “I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know shit about programming. I can tell you all about the history of prefrontal lobotomies, though.”

Cas cringes. “I’ll pass on that.”

“Good call.” Dean picks up the menu and inspects it. “So what’s with the get-up?”

“Oh.” Cas looks down at himself. “This is how I dress most of the time.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Like a 1920s gangster.”

“The pinnacle of style.” Cas smiles crookedly.

A brief image of dragging Cas across the table by his suspenders and crushing their mouths together flits across Dean’s mind, but he dismisses it when the server comes over to take their order.

They order – Dean gets the trolley turkey and Cas gets, _ugh_ , a salad (but thankfully listens to Dean’s recommendation of the tortilla soup) – and when the server walks away, Cas says, “I’m surprised because I thought you would be too busy to meet up.”

“What? Oh, nah. I mean yeah, I’m busy, but I’m not _too_ busy, you know? For, you know… you.” Dean scratches the back of his neck and he can feel his face flush. He hopes Cas doesn’t notice.

When Dean looks back at him, Cas is grinning at him again. “That’s good to know.”

 Dean’s heart melts at that smile. In a world that, from Dean’s perspective, has chewed them both up and spit them back out, Cas’s smile makes it seem not so bad.

Dean can feel himself smiling back, and then they’re just staring at each other in adoring silence, until  their server comes back with their drinks, setting them on the table.

Dean breaks eye contact and clears his throat.

“So how are your studies going?” Cas asks.

Dean takes a sip of his water. _Studies_. Despite the forged accent, that word sounds decidedly un-American. Or maybe Dean is just too low-class to use it in his vernacular. “Good. Big class-load this quarter. Yours?”

“Great, really,” Cas begins, taking his sunglasses off and perching them on top of his head.

His black eye is covered with makeup, but because Dean knows it’s there, he can see the shadow of it, hovering underneath, reminding Dean of the raw, vulnerable fear Cas showed Dean yesterday. It sends an additional surge of rage coursing through him.

Cas continues, “Other than O-Chem, I’m taking Gays and Lesbians in Film, Sexuality Studies, and, horribly enough, a computer programming course. I really didn’t think out my text very well, because I actually _do_ need Charlie to tutor me in Java.”

“Yeah, I’m falling behind in stats. Choose a major with no mathematic requirements, and they hit you with advanced stats like that’s somehow _not_ math.”  Dean takes a deep breath and asks, “So how do you know Dick won’t come looking for you here?”

Cas looks down and shrugs. “I don’t. But he didn’t take my phone at any point, so he didn’t read the text. And he didn’t ask a lot of questions when I said I was going out for lunch with Charlie.” Cas’s phone beeps, loud, and he pulls it out of his pocket. “Speak of the devil.”

Dean scoffs, “No kidding.”

Cas gives Dean a stern look before replying quickly and setting the phone back on the table.

It beeps again immediately.

Cas picks it up and says, “I’m very sorry. Please excuse me just a moment.” He types out a longer message, and puts his phone back in his pocket. It stays silent.

Dean sighs. “So what the hell is really going on here?”

Cas replies quietly, averting his eyes. “Dick is… paying for my education. And my stay in the United States. I would like to go into further detail, but I can’t right now, Dean. I’m sorry.” He looks at Dean in earnest. “Please understand.”

“That’s fine. I get you don’t want to talk about it,” Dean begins. “But why are you here with me when Dick is obviously pissed about my entire existence?”

Cas just stares at Dean in reply, searching him. “Financial support or not, I should be allowed to have friends, Dean.”

Friends. Right. Because Dean is heterosexual.

Dean nods. “Yeah. Yeah I get that. But Dick doesn’t seem to get on you about Charlie, or your LGBT group. Why are you taking this big-ass risk for my friendship?”

Cas furrows his eyes in confusion. “If you have to ask that, then maybe you don’t really understand.”

A series of scenarios cross Dean’s mind as he tries to parse out the meaning of those few words. Cas could be using Dean as an out from Dick because Dean offered as much. Cas could be using Dean in an effort to defy Dick. Cas could be as crazy about Dean as Dean is about Cas, but Dean thinks that option is probably the least likely. Or he could just be telling the truth, that he wants Dean as a friend, and no one should be able to keep him from that.

Before Dean can respond, the server returns with their food.

Cas dresses his salad and asks Dean, “How’s work?”

The conversation is easy-going after that, light-hearted and blatantly flirtatious. Dean teases Cas for ordering a salad. Cas agrees the tortilla soup is the best on the planet. Dean does his best impression of Bobby and makes Cas laugh. Cas spends a long time speaking in his Russian accent because Dean can’t hide how goddamn flustered it makes him.

Before he knows it, it’s a quarter past 2 and Dean has to get to the shop in 15 minutes. “Shit. Man, how do you do this? I live by the fucking minute and every time I’m around you, it’s like time doesn’t even exist.” He hails the server to bring them the check, and when Dean looks back, Cas is smiling broadly at him, like the way a little boy smiles when he opens the garage and sees a brand new bicycle waiting for him.

Not that Dean has ever had such an experience.

“What?” Dean asks.

Cas shakes the genuine smile off his face and replaces it with the fake, public one. They’re very similar, but Dean can see the difference between them now. “Nothing.”

The server brings the check and Dean slaps a twenty on the table as Cas reaches for his wallet.

“Don’t worry about it, dude,” Dean says as he stands.

Cas stands too and replies, “Thank you, Dean.” For once, he looks sheepish, as he adds, “May I get the next one?”

Dean smiles back at him, trying to hide the excitement bubbling within him. “Yeah, sounds good. Same time Thursday? We can try Dub Pub down the street.”

Nodding and grinning back—his real grin—Cas replies, “I’d like that.”

***

The day passes at an agonizingly slow speed. Dean can barely focus on work, but Bobby doesn’t notice because he’s too busy scolding Dean’s father for coming into work hung over.

Upon dropping a wrench and seeing John Winchester grimace at the noise, Dean _accidentally_ drops a few more throughout the day.

At the very least, John’s post-drunken antics distract Dean from thinking about Cas, and then from looking at his watch and calculating the number of hours until he gets to see Cas again.

Dean doesn’t know when he turned into a 14 year old girl, but he really needs to knock this shit off.

His giddiness is getting the better of him. While Bobby is yelling at John, Dean pulls his phone out of his pocket and types a text to Cas:

_Had a great time at lunch! Except that I’m just now getting over the mortification of eating with someone who orders salad. In public._

He knows it’s a risk, but he hopes it’s generic enough that it’s worth the outcome of making Cas smile.

Cas doesn’t reply immediately, and every moment thereafter makes Dean panic increasingly that it was a bad idea to text him, that Dick took his phone and is now doing God-knows-what to Cas.

Thankfully, his panic is short-lived. His phone buzzes in his hand as he pretends to inspect an engine. Bobby and John are still shouting at each other in the distance, completely ignoring Dean and his utter lack of work ethic today.

_In Soviet Russia, salad eat you!_

Dean can’t stifle the grin that erupts on his face, and replies:

_That is terrifying._

He wants to say more, wants to talk to Cas every minute of every day, find out what makes him tick, how he sees the world, crack his brain open and inspect all the pieces. But he knows he can’t, so he shoves his phone back in his pocket and distracts himself by reciting all the neurotransmitters and their functions in his head while he tries to figure out whatever the hell is wrong with the Ford Focus presently at his fingertips.

Cas doesn’t reply.

Bobby and John make amends a couple hours later. Dean can tell because his dad is actually working and Bobby isn’t pulling out his flask every few minutes. Also, the yelling has stopped, which is another good indicator that things are okay now.

A large hand claps Dean on the back. “How’s it going, son?”

“Good,” Dean replies, not looking up from the engine.

“Sam making dinner tonight?” John asks.

At last, Dean’s phone buzzes in his pocket. His heart leaps a little and he panics momentarily. This is the closest his two worlds have ever come to colliding, and he’s worried his father can sense the intense adoration he feels toward his blue-eyed Russian who stormed into his heart and set it on fire. As all this flits through his head, he replies, simply, “Yep.”

“Good.” John shuffles back to his own work after clapping Dean on the back again, and Dean pulls out his phone.

It’s from Cas, but it’s not a text. It’s a picture.

Cas is wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and looks terrified, while holding a head of lettuce above him, having drawn an angry face on it with a black marker.

A Russian flag is in the background.

Dean thinks he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading and for giving me your feedback! Next chapter will be posted when I recover from my 37 straight hours of travel.


	4. Chapter 2: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING HERE: domestic violence, gay bullying, sex shaming.
> 
> I would like to note that I _really_ don't like coming up with domestic violence scenes from my own imagination, so generally when I write about evil people doing evil things, it's from my own experience. The Quad Gods, while not violent, are still horrible, hate-filled, narrow minded people who shout some of what I've placed in here verbatim. And the scene between Dick and Cas is something that happened to me.
> 
> Good news, though, I'm home now! And if you guys keep liking the story, I'll try to keep updating on a nightly-ish basis if I can.

Cas momentarily forgets the world around him when he asks Dean for his number. "So, um... no homo, but can I have your number?"

There's a second when his question is precariously balanced in the air, when Dean looks at him, expression unreadable, and Cas thinks he's overstepped a line with Dean. Then, to Cas's relief, Dean smiles and holds out his hand for Cas's phone.

Castiel reaches for his back pocket, feels nothing but his grass skirt, and remembers he's wearing jogging shorts underneath. He pulls his phone out of the small pocket in the waistband of his shorts and hands it to Dean, who looks at it, hesitates, and frowns. He punches a few buttons, and hands it back to Cas with a warm smile, all traces of the frown gone. "Text me sometime," he begins. "I want to come the next LBQTGMSTVRXQLP event that you have.”

Cas's heart swells, and he laughs, "It's LGBTQA."

“Sorry, I’m kind of dumb about this stuff. What does that stand for?” Dean asks.

“Lesbian, gay, bi, trans, queer or questioning, and ally or asexual."

Dean shuffles his feet and looks down, suddenly shy. “Sorry if this is too personal a question, but which one of those are you?” He looks back up at Cas, bright green eyes shining with innocent curiosity.

There's a moment where Cas's past flits through his mind, being an openly gay boy in Russia, an orphan, on the streets selling himself to shady politicians, rich business owners, anyone with a few coins in their pockets to spare so that Cas could keep himself and Anna fed.

Cas is only 21, but he feels centuries old. He believes he's seen the world at its darkest, and the few tiny bright lights in that darkness are the only reason to keep going: the Annas of the world and the Dean Winchesters; the innocent, and the pure. The people so unlike Cas, who has done so many awful, terrible things in his short life that he doesn't feel like he deserves to be in the presence of the shining beacon of light standing right in front of him, smiling at Cas like he's actually worth more than 500 rubles, the US equivalent of $15.

For a blissful, brief second, the light is so blinding that Castiel forgets that he's about to go home to the darkest shadow of them all: the highest bidder, Dick Roman.

But Cas doesn't let any of this show. He straps it all down tight within his gut, and smiles up at Dean like his biggest concern is how soon is too soon to send Dean a text message. "I'm gay, Dean."

It doesn't matter how many times he says it, saying, " _I'm gay_ ," out loud in the presence of someone he knows won't bat an eyelash at it is one of the best feelings in the world, and one of the few reliefs Cas gets within the constant pain of his jagged-edged life.

“Cool,” Dean nods. “Well if you want to hang out sometime, let me know. We can go for coffee or whatever and you can teach me more about LGB… TQ… A… stuff."

“Sure,” Cas replies, heart lifting in his chest. “I’ll text you.”

 “Cool.” Dean says again, taking another step backward. “Yeah.” He takes another step and bumps into a table behind him, then skirts around it. Lifting the corners of his mouth slightly, he raises his hand and waves, concluding with, “See you later, Cas.”

“See you later, Dean,” Cas replies, grin plastered on his face.

Cas takes a deep breath, reveling for a few more seconds in the afterglow of Dean's presence, and pulls his phone out.

Time to panic.

Dick sent him 12 text messages and called him 5 times. The notifications were gone so Cas knows Dean saw them. His heart sinks.

He cannot in good conscience drag Dean into the mess of his life, so, unlike Anna, who was taken away from him, Cas is going to have to take himself away from Dean, leaving Cas cowering in the shadow of Dick Roman for the rest of his sad, pathetic life.

Cas wills himself to read through the text messages:

_Who was that guy?_

_Do you like him?_

_I bet you do. I bet you already fucked him, you whore. I bet he's using you._

_He doesn't love you, you know. No one loves you except for me. And no one ever will. No one could ever love a whore like you._

_I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. Please come home._

_The bed is cold without you. Can I hold you?_

_I called you. You didn't answer. You're fucking him. I know you're fucking him. That's all you know how to do._

_Come home right now, Castiel. I mean it._

_Answer your phone._

_WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER YOUR PHONE._

_God I hate you so much, you filthy cocksucking piece of shit._

_That's it. I'm done. I'm sending you back to Russia with a Return to Sender label taped to your forehead. You're just another broken toy that isn't worth the money I spend on you._

Cas throws his phone on the couch and collapses onto it, holding his face in his hands.

He could leave right now. Wander into the woods behind the school and never come out. Live off the land until someone finds him and deports him, and then he could go find Anna and they would go into hiding together.

The second Dick would figure out Cas went missing, they'd take Anna and torture her for information. Then Dick would go to Dean and do the same thing.

Just by knowing Castiel, Dean is in danger too.

Cas's only choice is to go face the consequences of his dumb, selfish decisions.

***

Cas meanders to his car, a Bentley Mulsanne that Dick bought him – or more accurately, Dick's father bought him – and chucks his hula skirt in the back seat.

On the drive home, for which he takes the back roads and drives exactly the speed limit, his cell phone buzzes in his pocket about ten more times, and he ignores it.

When he gets up to the penthouse, he doesn't need to switch on a light to see the silhouette of Dick, sitting on the couch and drinking a glass of scotch, looking away from Cas, solemn.

God, Cas thinks, he's so fucking _dramatic_.

Cas walks around him to go into the bedroom. Before he reaches the door, Dick condescendingly chirps, "Ah ah ah."

He stops and turns toward Dick, expression as blank as he can will it to be.

Dick sets his scotch down and stands, slowly circling around the couch, and leaning against the back of it. He crosses his arms over his chest. "Castiel, my love."

Cas doesn't reply.

He holds out his hand to Cas, and commands, "Phone."

Dragging his phone out of his pocket and willing himself to stay calm when he realizes that _shit_ , he forgot to change Dean's name in his contacts, he steps forward and drops it in Dick's hand.

Dick clicks around in it and finds what he's looking for, nodding sadly. "I knew you would betray me, Castiel. It's in your nature. You're just a wild Russian with no control."

Cas remains still and silent.

Dick puts Cas's phone in his back pocket and saunters toward Castiel, staring him down like a hunter stalks its prey.

Cas steps back for every step forward Dick takes until eventually, he's pressed against the wall. He shifts sideways, but Dick shifts sideways too.

He's trapped.

Cas refuses to make any indication that he's afraid, so he forces himself to stare into Dick's eyes, expression blank and open, like the broken object Dick insists that he is.

Dick leans forward and grazes Castiel's lips with his own, clutching Cas's face in one hand and staring Cas down. "I would kiss you, but I imagine you've had your lips around another man's cock tonight, haven't you?"

Cas doesn't answer.

"You're such a whore, Castiel," Dick coos, sounding out the words slowly, like it's a compliment.

Cas's gaze grows stern as he growls, "I'd take being a whore any day over being the stuck-up, whiny little bitch that you are."

Fire erupts in Dicks eyes as he grits his teeth and shouts in Cas's face, "How _dare_ you speak to me like that! I give you _EVERYTHING_!" He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a switchblade, quickly pressing it against Cas's throat. It's sharp, and if Cas moves even a little, he knows it will pierce him. "You and your pathetic little slut of a sister would be _DEAD_ if it weren't for me!"

Cas blinks at him, apathetic. "If you slit my throat, your daddy won't get back his security deposit."

Dick screams in a blind fury and steps away from Cas, chucking the knife into another room. "Why do you _DO THIS TO ME?"_ He clutches his hair with his hands and lets out a dry sob. " _I JUST WANT TO LOVE YOU!"_ Then, steadying himself, he raises his fist with another scream and brings it down across Cas's face.

Cas reels, and slumps against the wall, sliding down.

He doesn't remember anything after that.

***

The weekend passes in a haze. Cas escapes himself, going catatonic, as Dick moves on to his honeymoon phase and dotes on Castiel, bringing him chocolate and flowers and pressing vile kisses to temple.

Cas doesn't speak. He doesn't eat. He barely moves.

Finally, on Sunday, Dick invites Charlie over. She steps into Castiel's room slowly. He can hear her hesitation even though she's done this a million times before.

"Hey, Cas," she says, wary.

Cas doesn't reply.

She sets her stuff down and sits on the bed next to him, crossing her legs.

Charlie is in the same boat Cas is, but on a milder level. Dick is paying for her college too. She's his PA, his go-to person for anything and everything under the sun. She's Dick's pet like Cas is Dick's pet, but she doesn't get the drama of it all. Dick doesn't own her like he owns Cas. He just pays her.

Charlie is the closest thing that Cas has to a friend, and because he knows there are dollars at the end of the transaction, he wonders if Charlie is really his friend at all, or if she's just really good at acting like it.

She runs her fingers through Cas's hair, and that tiny bit of affection, even if it's paid for, is what breaks the dam. Cas rolls over and curls around her, sobbing into her hip and clutching at his blankets.

Shushing him, she says quietly, "Hey, it's okay. It's over now. Everything's okay."

Cas shakes his head. Charlie doesn't know the full situation, and she doesn't ask a lot of questions. Sometimes, she tries to convince Cas that someone paying for his college isn't worth this, but she doesn't understand the depth of the problem, and Cas isn't allowed to tell her for her own safety. So he pretends he's doing all of this for himself, for his sense of pride and achievement, and not because he's been forced into it. For Anna. So that Anna has a chance at the decent life that Cas will never have.

It's worth it, for her.

Cas briefly wonders if Dean would do the same thing for his little brother, and the thought of Dean rips another sob from his body. Dean was expecting Cas to text him, and now it looks like Cas doesn't like him, and Dean will probably never speak to him again.

All of the light in Cas's life is gone now.

All that remains are the shadows.

***

On Monday, Cas heads to campus early, before Dick wakes up, so that he can avoid the intense affection with which Dick would likely shower him. He would probably make him breakfast and tell him a funny story about something or other that Dick likes to use in order to charm people to him, like a snake.

Luckily, Cas escapes before Dick wakes up. Dick still has his cell phone, so Cas just sits on a bench on the Quad, staring into nothing and thinking.

When the Quad Gods set up shop, Castiel is incredibly thankful that he carries Pride face paint on his person at all times.

And it'll cover his eye so that he doesn't have to be that douchebag who wears sunglasses inside all day.

He runs into Millett and expertly plasters a rainbow over his face, starting with a stripe of red on the left side of his face and ending with a stripe of purple on his right. The blue and green cover up the nasty bruise on his eye.

Cas rushes over to the Model UN room and finds a Sharpie and a large square of cardboard. In big letters, he scrawls, "GOD LOVES FAGS," across it.

When Cas walks back to the Quad, the Quad Gods are spewing their hate at the few bystanders who have stopped to scoff at them.

An angry rage boils up within Cas. One of the reasons he came to the States was to get _away_ from this shit, and he refuses to tolerate it on his campus, which he chose for its staunch liberal stance.

Being liberal, the school lets this kind of thing continue, because of free speech, blah blah blah.

But Cas is free to speak as well. Or in this case, march solemnly with his sign, pacing back and forth directly in front of the Quad Gods.

More people begin to crowd around them. The Quad Gods shout louder. "You!" one of them shouts into a megaphone, pointing to a girl in cutoff jean shorts. "Skin is the allure of the devil! Cover yourself!"

She rolls her eyes and walks on.

Cas is thankful that their words have always fallen on deaf ears, but the attention they receive from the onlookers who jeer at them only serve to fuel their hate.

So Cas continues pacing, and the Quad Gods don't know what to do about it.

Finally, someone begins to clap slowly, and the rest of the crowd follows suit. It's obvious they're cheering Cas on, so one of the Quad Gods jumps down from the raised platform and gets in Castiel's face. "You’re _all_ gonna burn in hell. God _hates_ fags!"

Cas looks into his eyes, searching them for any ounce of reason or rationality, and, finding nothing but blind hatred, replies, "God loves us all."

In a fit of fury, the man pushes Castiel. The sign goes flying and Castiel lands on the ground, hard, hitting his head.

He opens his eyes and sees stars. Sitting up, there's a bright light rushing in front of him and punching the Quad God in the face.

Cas knows that bright light. That's _his_ bright light.

Castiel thinks he might have died, because there is no way Dean Winchester, whom he didn't contact like he promised he would, who has no reason to continue speaking to him, let alone defend him against pathetic evangelists, just punched a Quad God in the face on behalf of Castiel.

Dean, light fading as Castiel regains most of his mental faculties, rushes over to Cas as he sits up, rubbing the back of his head.

"Cas? Are you okay?" Dean holds out his hand for Cas to take and Cas just stares at it a moment, thinking about how beautiful Dean's hands really are. They're rough and calloused from years of labor and athleticism, but they're also dexterous and deft, soft and clean.

They are a symbol of Dean himself.

Cas takes Dean's hand and stands.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Cas begins, then sees the guy Dean just punched standing slowly and rushing toward them. "But..." Cas points to the man, being unable to do much else.

Thankfully, Dean turns and reacts quickly, ducking under the punch that the man throws and tackling him to the ground. Dean straddles him and lands three good punches to the man's face.

Cas feels sick. He's not sure if it's the concussion, or if it's seeing Dean in a violent state and being triggered by it, or both, but Cas clutches his stomach and bends over, the world spinning quickly around him.

When Cas stands back up, Dean is nowhere to be found, and the crowd slowly dissipates.

Finally, Cas spots him, storming away from the Quad toward class. He runs after him. "Dean!"

Dean, thankfully, turns and glares at Cas, which is nothing less than Castiel predicted. "I gotta get to class, man."

The world is still spinning, but Cas manages to say, "I just wanted to thank you."

"'Sfine," Dean replies.

Cas's vision goes blurry and dark around the edges. His stomach does summersaults and Cas thinks he might go blind with the pain in his head.

It is just Cas's luck, and an unfortunate representation of his entire fucking life, that he has somehow managed to have both a concussion and a panic attack at the exact same moment, and with Dean Winchester, of all people, right in front of him.

When Dean asks, "Hey are you okay?" Cas tries to dismiss him, so that he can go through this anywhere but in front of Dean fucking Winchester.

Dean says something Cas can barely understand as he drifts in and out of consciousness, wavering on his feet.

Suddenly, a strong arm wraps around his waist, lifting him and taking him into the nearest building. Cas mumbles, "Model UN room, Millett Hall."

Cas closes his eyes and when he opens them again, he's laying on a couch, staring at the ceiling of the Model UN room.

Dean hands him an icepack and tells him to put it on the back of his head. It hurts, but the cold pressure helps him feel less faint.

In the distance, he hears something about Dean washing his face paint off, and then there's a cool, damp cloth gently roving over his forehead. He leans into the touch, soothed by it.

A sharp pain hits him as Dean wipes the paint away below his eye. Cas gasps and fully comes to. He opens his eyes and grabs Dean's wrist, pleading, "It's not what it looks like."

Dean's expression grows dark. “Tell me what happened."

"I fell," Cas replies, blank.

“On a sharp rock. Directly on your eye. I don’t buy it, Cas.” Despite the anger in his voice, Dean continues pressing the cool compress to Cas's face. It feels divine.

 “Just trust me, Dean. It was my fault.” ...for being a fucking idiot.

“Trust you?” Dean asks. “We’ve met a grand total of three times. One of them, I was introduced to your wacko, possessive boyfriend. And now you’ve got a black eye. So no, I’m not going to trust you here, because I’ve seen these signs too many damn times before.”

Surprised, Cas opens his eyes and looks at Dean. “You have?”

There's a small hitch in Dean's voice as he replies, “Yeah, when I was a kid. With my mom.”

Without thinking, Cas takes Dean's hand in his own and places it on his chest. He can feel the roughness, the calluses, the strength, and the gentleness of them as they help ground Cas back to reality. “You said you live with your brother and father. Where’s your mother?”

 “She’s dead,” Dean says, quiet.

Cas asks, heart aching in sympathy, “How did she die?”

Dean shrugs. “Not sure, really. I was young. They found her car wrapped around a tree. No one knows what caused the accident, or if it was even an accident at all.”

Cas really, truly understands Dean's pain. “Oh my god, Dean. I’m so sorry.” He weaves his fingers in between Dean’s, and it feels so good to touch him, to express this without pushing Dean away.

Dean shrugs again, dismissing it as though it's not a big deal to lose one's mother at the age of four. “It was a long time ago." He pauses. "Wait. You’re doing that thing again.”

Cas furrows his brow. “What thing?”

“Where you divert the topic back to me to avoid talking about yourself. Now tell me what the hell is going on so I can help you. I don’t even have your damn number because you never texted me, so unless you tell me right now, I’m going to be totally in the dark.” Dean brushes the hair away from Castiel's eyes and an intense wave of pure gratitude for everything Dean is washes over him.

Because of this, Cas decides to tell him the truth. “I couldn’t text you. I wanted to, Dean. I really, really did. But Dick took away my phone when he saw your number in it. I was stupid. I should have changed your name in my contacts.” Cas shakes his head. “I’ll never learn. But I’m supposed to get it back tonight… sans your number, I’m guessing.”

“I’ll write it down for you, and you can put me under a different name, like Charlie’s work cell or something, I don’t know.”

Cas nods, already scheming. “That could work. I’ll think of something.”

Suddenly, Dean stands, pointing at Cas, mouth agape. "Your eye. That was my fault. Dick did that because of me.”

Sitting up, Cas waves his hands at Dean, trying to dissuade him from his conclusion. “No, Dean. I promise you it wasn’t your fault. It was mine.”

Dean kneels next to Cas and looks into his eyes, searching, frantic. “Tell me. Look me in the eye and tell me right now that Dick Roman didn’t hit you because he found my number in your phone.”

Cas can't reply. His throat is too constricted.

“Dammit, Cas!” Dean shouts. He rubs his face with his hand and paces.

Cas stands and crosses the room, resting his hand on Dean's shoulder. “Dean?”

Dean looks at him, expression pained. “I can’t be the reason you get any more black eyes. But…” Dean turns completely toward Cas, takes Cas's hand and entwines their fingers together again. “I want to be here for you. So if you can find a way to stay safe and have my number, I want you to have it, and I want you to know that I’ll answer every call, every text, at any hour. I’ll be there at a moment’s notice. I promise.”

Dean lets go of Cas and takes out a slip of paper and a pen from his shirt pocket.

“Dean…” Cas can't finish his sentence. Tears are welling in his eyes. He has never been shown this amount of kindness, has never seen this amount of light.

Dean hands Cas the piece of paper. “You should memorize this.”

Cas takes Dean's hand in his own and kisses the back of it, saying, " _спасибо, мой спаситель_."

The corners of Dean's mouth turn up. “I don’t know what that means.”

Cas kisses his hand again, feeling the smoothness of it against his lips, smelling the warm, wonderful, scent of Dean's skin. “It translates roughly to, ‘ _thank_ _you, my savior_.’”

“I haven’t saved you from anything,” Dean replies.

“You really have, Dean. You’ve done more than you know.” Dean has given Cas the greatest gift of all: hope. He has given him fire. Fire to fight with, and to light his way through the darkness. When Cas is around Dean, it's like his life is finally the way he's always wanted it to be.

Cas steps closer to Dean, unable to control the gravitational pull of his lips toward Dean's, but before they meet, Dean steps away, saying hurriedly, “I gotta get to class. Call me. Text me. Whatever. Just keep me in the loop, okay?”

Rome wasn't built in a day, Cas reminds himself with a sigh. Closet cases, even ones as beautiful and sweet and brave and kind as Dean Winchester, take time to coax out.

If Dean is even gay, which Cas still isn't 100% sure of.

So Cas plasters on his smile and bids Dean goodbye.

***

That night, Dick comes home and gives Cas back his cell phone, muttering a pitiful, "Sorry," before leaving Castiel alone for the rest of the night.

As predicted, Dick deleted Dean's number. And, Cas notes, all of the frantic text messages Dick sent on Friday night.

Cas immediately types in Dean's number, now memorized, and texts:

_Hey, Charlie! I was wondering if I could take you up on your offer to tutor me in programming? Maybe we can meet up for lunch tomorrow at the Trolley Stop? Noonish?_

It's only a minute before Dean texts back, but in that minute, a million scenarios fly through Cas's mind, ranging from _He changed his mind_ to _He's going to be too busy to hang out_ to _He's going to choose right now to have his big gay panic_.

Then Dean replies:

 _Sure thing. See you there_.

Cas's heart soars and he reads those five words over and over and over again, written proof that Dean exists outside of Cas's perception of him, that he's not just a beautiful hallucination Cas made up as a means of escape. Dean is flesh and blood and bones and love all rolled up into one really real human being with really real plans to hang out with Cas tomorrow.

Cas grins and falls back onto his pillow, sighing with happiness and relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, when I was in Cas's position, I really did say, "If you slit my throat, you won't get our security deposit back." 
> 
> Because I'm not a smart person.


	5. Chapter 3: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news, everyone! I have a beta reader now!! This chapter is a little short so that I don't get behind on my writing schedule, but it's a good'n, I promise. 
> 
> THE BIGGEST THANK YOU IN THE WHOLE WORLD TO MY NEW BETA READER, [MICHAELA GREY](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela) (who writes wonderfully sexy things that you should all go read). And here is [her tumblr.](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com/)
> 
> We shall now return to our regularly scheduled levity.

The next morning, Dean has to roll out of bed at early fucking o’clock for a game. Hours later, he’s in his uniform, on the pitcher’s mound—his second home—warming up his arm.

The crowd slowly gathers; students in between class, retired people who like to follow college baseball, a few parents and siblings. The cameramen set up to televise the game on some obscure ESPN channel that only a handful of people in the world would happen to be watching.

Dean runs to the dugout before the game starts to check his phone on the off-chance Cas texted him.

And he did.

_I’ll see you at the game._

Dean blinks.

He reads the text again, and replies:

_This game?_

One of his teammates yells, “C’mon, Winchester, sometime today!”

Dean yells back, “Give me a minute!”

His phone vibrates in his hand.

_Yes, this game that we are both now currently at. And you should probably listen to him._

Dean hops out of the dugout and runs toward the mound, searching the crowd.

Goddamn Castiel cannot distract Dean the one time he absolutely cannot afford to be distracted.

Dean locates his stupidly attractive stalker in his stupid Raybans and his stupid 1920s get-up with his stupid sex-hair and his stupid blue eyes.

He’s front and center behind home plate, leaned casually against the row of bleachers behind him as he stares back intently at Dean and…

_Goddammit._

…pulls a giant motherfucking lollipop out of his mouth.

Dean’s feet somehow drag him all the way to the pitcher’s mound, tripping slightly over the small horizontal plate on top of it when Castiel pulls the sucker out of his mouth and sinfully licks around it.

There is no way in hell Dean will survive this game.

He scans the rest of the crowd to spot his dad, who is hopefully as far away as humanly possible from Cas and the undeniable fellatio he is performing on a sphere of spun sugar.

John is behind the home team dugout, sunglasses on and rubbing his forehead. When he spots Dean looking at him, he smiles and gives a thumbs-up.

Dean takes a deep breath and forces himself to avoid Cas at all costs.

He catches the ball that the umpire lobs at him and circles the mound, pumping himself up and getting focused, then pitching the ball to the catcher three times to finish warming up his arm.

The batter steps up to the plate and loosens his wrists, circling the bat around and sliding into his stance. Dean circles the mound one final time then and lines his feet up on the plate, nodding once to the catcher who nods back.

He leans back and then takes a large step forward, raising his arm and flinging the ball at the catcher.

“Strike!” the ump calls with the corresponding arm movement.

It’s good luck to start the game with a strike, which is Dean’s totally sound reasoning for risking a glance up at Cas after he catches the ball in his mitt.

Cas is still teasing him with the lollipop and Dean can feel his face catch on fire with how turned on it makes him, the humiliation of which is only made worse by the fact that his father is in the audience and Dean’s flaming face is currently being televised.

Dean is angry and flustered and horny and frustrated, and trying his damndest to focus on the goddamn game, but it’s impossible with a sexy Russian in his peripheral vision fucking a piece of candy with his goddamn mouth.

Somehow, though, against all odds, all of these emotions in tandem work for Dean, because he strikes out the batter.

Then he strikes out the next batter.

The third batter hits a grounder to first, so Dean scoops it up, tosses it to the first baseman, and jogs back into the dugout.

Dean rushes over to his phone and checks it. He has a text that reads:

_Having fun?_

Dean wants to reply with a series of expletives, and explain to Cas that he can’t do this to him, can’t put these images in his head when for once, Dean really needs to concentrate.

Then he thinks better of it, remembering that straight baseball superstar Dean Winchester would not be fazed by handsome men performing sexual acts on moderately phallic objects.

So instead, Dean replies:

 _Absolutely_.

Dean puts his phone away and watches the inning from the dugout, void of anything flitting through his brain but aluminum hitting leather.

He finds his zone finally, that place of Zen where nothing else exists but the game and his teammates. Dean doesn’t look back up at the crowd again until the game is over. They won, 10 to 8, and thankfully no one is going out for drinks after because everyone has to hit the showers to get to their afternoon classes.

Dean, however, has to clean up and rush to work, where he’s sure his father will give him a run-down of his opinion on the game, and a play-by-play of what Dean did right and what he did wrong. John has done this after every single game since Dean started tee-ball when he was five years old.

When Dean gets to work an hour later, his dad is already there, raving about how well the game went to Bobby, who isn’t really listening, and then immediately diverts his attention to Dean.

“There’s that rifle!” John shouts, clapping Dean on the back when Dean punches his timecard.

And so John continues for several hours, Dean sort of listening and sort of not, while they both work on the same car. Dean nods in response sometimes and grunts an affirmative other times.

When John finally tapers off—“And the pitch you threw to the southpaw in the third inning? The _curve_ on that baby!”—an hour later, Dean hears a very familiar deep voice speaking to Bobby in the front office.

“…just an oil change will be fine, thanks.”

“’Course,” Bobby replies. “Just sign here and feel free to wait in the waiting area. It’ll be about a half hour.”

“Actually, I’m a friend of Dean’s. May I go say hello to him? If he’s here?”

Dean can’t see it, but he can _feel_ Bobby narrow his eyes, and hear the thoughts crossing through his mind, putting the pieces together as to why Dean’s been so distracted lately, and when did Dean get friends? “Uhh… yeah, sure. He’s in the garage.”

Dean is under the hood of a Chevy Malibu trying very hard not to panic. His massive gay fantasy is making his way through the safe and decidedly heterosexual aspects of Dean’s life today, and he’s very much on edge about it.

Dean hears footsteps approach him and then sees those feet stop near his. “Hello, Dean.”

Taking a deep breath, Dean stands up like he didn’t notice Cas approaching at all. “Hey, Cas,” he says casually, forcing a frown on his face to hide the wide smile that he gets whenever he sees Cas, despite the imminent nuclear explosion that will be the direct result of the two sides of his life violently colliding.

His father is mere feet away from them, under a car, and Dean hopes he can’t hear them.

Dean realizes that he needs to get them as far away from John and Bobby as possible, as soon as possible. “You have your keys?”

“Oh.” Cas fishes in his pockets and pulls out his keys.

“Great. Point me to her and we’ll take a look.” Dean speeds out of the garage, Cas at his heels.

They get to the parking lot and Dean stops dead in his tracks.

Cas walks ahead of him to approach what Dean can now confirm is Cas’s Bentley Mulsanne.

“This is what you _actually drive_?” Dean asks, incredulous.

Cas tosses the keys to Dean, looking bewildered. “Yes, why?”

Dean catches them absently. “Dude. This is a half a million dollar car. And it’s yours.”

Looking at the car and then back to Dean, Cas replies, “No it isn’t. I just drive it. It’s Dick’s.”

Dean pushes down the bubble of jealousy that wells up in him—jealousy about Cas or the car, Dean doesn’t know.

“What work do you need done?” Dean approaches the vehicle, mouth agape as he runs his hand over the hood. He has never worked on so valuable a car. Except for his Baby of course, but she has more sentimentality than petty monetary value.

Cas shrugs. “Just an oil change.”

“So you brought it in here,” Dean concludes.

Cas nods. “Yes.”

“For an oil change.”

“Yes.”

Dean blinks. “And the game earlier?”

Cas shrugs again, hiding a smile. “I’m a fan?”

Dean smiles back at him. He just can’t fucking help it. “Are you stalking me?”

Cas steps closer to Dean, smile spreading across his face. “So what if I am?”

Dean wants so badly to close the gap between them, to reach forward and wrap his arm around Cas’s waist, pulling him in and kissing him like there's no tomorrow. Then Dean thinks about bending him over the hood of the Bentley and pounding into him, a big fuck-you to King Douchebag, Dick Roman.

But Dean remembers that Cas is hands-off. He has a boyfriend and Dean can’t come out of the closet until… well, who knows, but today definitely isn’t the day.

Dean steps away from Cas, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck, effectively breaking the tension between them. He turns his attention back to the Bentley. “Cool. Okay so I’ll go ahead and get this done for you. I’m sure you need to head home anyway. Probably have a lot of homework.”

“Dean…” Cas begins.

Dean looks anywhere but at Cas, and Cas steps into his space again, reaching forward to caress the side of Dean’s hand, filthy with engine grease.

Dean lets him, lets them both have this moment. He looks at Cas, black eye still covered up, eyes still impossibly blue. Before he knows what he’s saying, he asks, “Is Dick really your boyfriend?”

Cas looks down at their hands, and steps forward even closer, slowly threading his fingers in between Dean’s. “Not really. Not voluntarily, anyway.”

Dean furrows his brow in confusion. “Voluntarily?”

“The hell you doing, boy?” Bobby shouts from several yards away. “Get the hell back to work. This is a body shop, not a goddamn nail salon.”

Dean coughs and steps as far away from Cas as he can, ducking his head and scratching the back of his neck. “Sure thing, Bobby. Be right there.”

Bobby storms back in the building, muttering, "Goddamn idjit," and Dean turns to Castiel, scared and angry.

“Look, man. I can’t…  I don’t…” he can’t put words to what he needs to tell Cas, that he can’t blow his cover at this sensitive stage in his life, that he wants to be there for Cas, wants to hold him and kiss him and do all manner of depraved acts with him, but that Cas can’t just walk into his life, blind and flailing, and knock over the precariously-balanced china cabinets that make up Dean’s pathetic façade of a normal goddamn life. He sighs. “I’ll have your car ready in a half hour.”


	6. Chapter 3: Cas, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I had a photo gig I had to do last night so I couldn't get Cas all the way caught up to Dean. 
> 
> The tortilla soup at the Trolley really is the best, by the way.
> 
> My beta, [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela), is also the best. Thanks for the quick turn-around, lovely lady!
> 
> Update: [Fanart](https://41.media.tumblr.com/85ba3685d8c74ce63ca18887468c8a2d/tumblr_n7kn17NcAX1rknbmbo1_1280.jpg) for this chapter by [gabrielandasstiel](http://gaybrielandasstiel.tumblr.com/)

Tuesday morning, Castiel wakes up early, buzzing with anticipation. He doesn't have class that morning, but Dick does, and then he has a full afternoon of boring business stuff to do, so Cas has the penthouse all to himself.

Cas showers and shaves and stares woefully at his enormous closet – still destroyed from the Great Luau Battle – deciding if he should go with a baby blue shirt and burgundy suspenders or an eggshell shirt with navy suspenders. Either way, the blue will bring out his eyes, but his silver cufflinks and matching Cartier watch look much better with the white shirt and blue suspenders.

He goes with the latter, then opens his massive drawer of ties, and stares at it for a long time.

Unable to find a tie that will adequately match his suspenders, he gets undressed again and collapses backward onto his bed, mumbling to the ceiling, " _У меня нет ничего, чтобы носить._ "

_I don't have anything to wear._

After two hours, he finally opts for the white shirt and navy suspenders, with matching – but not _too_ matching – slacks, his silver cufflinks, the Cartier, and a navy blue tie with thin, butter yellow stripes.

He looks himself up and down in his large full-length mirror and sighs. As he rolls up his sleeves, the sardonic voice of his mind-Charlie says, _"The color of your suspenders will not turn Dean Winchester gay for you_."

On his way out the door, he dabs some foundation under his eye and checks his teeth. Then he practices saying, "Hello, Dean," three times, with different levels of gravel in his voice, and shakes his head, cursing himself in Russian for being a such a moron to fall head over heels for a straight boy.

He walks over to the Trolley Stop and situates himself on the back patio, facing the door so that he'll be able to see Dean when he approaches. He checks his watch. He's a half hour early.

He taps his foot impatiently and looks at the menu, unable to concentrate on any of the words. He checks his cell phone and puts it away.

He checks his cell phone again moments later, but before putting it away, he texts the real Charlie:

_TOTALLY. FREAKING. OUT._

Cas had called Charlie the night before and told her about his "date" with Dean. They used code, of course, because Charlie, for the most part, is able to read him like a book. They referred to it as a "final."

She texts back:

_Good luck on your final! ;););)_

To which Cas calmly replies:

_AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH_

Charlie texts back:

_You'll do fiiiiiine. Just give the prof some of that good ol' Russian charm, which I am now referring to as your 'Molotov cocktail' charm. Get it? Because you're flaming?_

Cas replies:

_You are the WORST._

He puts away his phone and the minutes tick by slowly, so he lets himself zone out.

God bless Dean Winchester for his busy schedule. He arrives exactly ten minutes early, and Cas beams at him as he approaches the table, exclaiming, "Dean! You came."

Cas had no idea that he finds punctuality so sexy in a man.

Dean's cheeks flush and he looks away when he pulls out the chair across from Cas. "I did, yeah." He sits down and picks up the menu. "I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t know shit about programming. I can tell you all about the history of prefrontal lobotomies, though.”

 _Ew_. “I’ll pass on that.”

“Good call. So," Dean begins, not looking up from the menu, "What’s with the get-up?”

“Oh.” Success! Dean noticed Cas's careful choice of wardrobe. One point for gay. But that's a stereotype, one Cas tries very hard to avoid. Also, Dean didn't actually _compliment_ Cas's attire. He just noted it. He could maybe hate it. One point for straight. “This is how I dress most of the time.”

Cas can't read Dean's expression when he concludes, “Like a 1920s gangster.”

“The pinnacle of style.” Cas _knows_ he looks good. If navy blue suspenders that bring out Cas's eyes can't turn a man, then nothing will.

The server approaches the table, and Cas realizes he hasn't even looked at the menu. She asks, "What can I get you both?"

Dean sets the menu down after scanning it briefly and tells her, "I don't know why I bother looking at the menu. I get the same thing every time I come here."

"Oh!" the server exclaims, swatting a hand to her forehead. "I know this one. You come in a lot, right? With the tall guy who has the long hair. You get the... what is it... the trolley turkey? With a cup of tortilla soup?"

Dean smiles his charming, crooked smile at her. "You got it."

Two points for straight.

An intense burst of jealousy fills Cas's stomach and he suddenly loses what little appetite he had. Their server is a small, thin, perky brunette with a sleeve tattoo of what looks like an – ugh, _so cliché_ – owl.

Cas bets she even has an anchor tattooed to her hip with the infinity symbol around it.

Mind-Charlie says, " _Petty, Cas! Tattoo shaming is not cool!_ "

When she looks to Cas to take his order, he smiles his fake bitchy smile at her and orders a salad.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Dean says. "You can't order a _salad_. This is Ohio! Not... I don't know, France or wherever."

Cas narrows his eyes. "I don't think salads are particularly French, Dean."

"Whatever," Dean replies. "You know what I mean. You at least gotta try the tortilla soup. It's the best."

"In Dayton or France?" Cas asks, smirking.

"Everywhere. The whole world." Dean looks back up at the server and hands her back the menus, telling her, "He wants a cup of soup too. If he doesn't eat it, I will."

She giggles. Actually _giggles_ , and Cas rolls his eyes when Dean's not looking. "Sure. I'll have that out for you in a few."

Castiel is a petty man. He is not at all above fishing for compliments when his ego has been stepped on. Or in this case, shredded into pieces with a machete. A machete with an owl tattoo. "I’m surprised because I thought you would be too busy to meet up.”

“What? Oh, nah. I mean yeah, I’m busy, but I’m not _too_ busy, you know? For, you know… you," Dean rambles, face flushing.

Two points for gay.

“That’s good to know,” Cas replies.

They stare at each other with matching goofy grins on their faces, until a moment later, Owl Tattoo Lady comes back with their waters and sets them down in front of them.

Cas takes a sip of his water and asks Dean how his studies are going.

After the small-talk, Dean takes a deep breath and asks, "So how do you know Dick won’t come looking for you here?”

 _Because I didn't think of that. Because I'm an idiot._ He shrugs. “I don’t. But he didn’t take my phone at any point, so he didn’t read the text. And he didn’t ask a lot of questions when I said I was going out for lunch today with Charlie.” To Cas's embarrassment, his phone beeps in his pocket, and he pulls it out. Of course it's Dick. Of course. “Speak of the devil.”

_Just got out of class. I hope you're having a good day!_

"No kidding," Dean mumbles, and Cas tries not to smile.

Cas texts Dick back because he knows if he doesn't, he'll have a repeat of Friday.

_Thanks. :) You too._

He sets his phone down and opens his mouth to speak when his phone beeps again. "I’m very sorry. Please excuse me just a moment."

_What are you up to? I love you so much today. <333 I can't wait to see you._

Rage and disgust and loathing boil within Cas as he replies:

_About to meet Charlie for lunch! Will tell you all about it later!_

He puts his phone back in his pocket and turns his attention back to Dean.

"So what the hell is really going on here?" Dean asks, annoyed.

Cas sighs. There's no way he's going to get around this, so Cas promotes Dean to Charlie-level knowledge about his situation and hopes it will suffice. "Dick is… paying for my education. And my stay in the United States. I would like to go into further detail, but I can’t right now, Dean. I’m sorry. Please understand.”

“That’s fine. I get you don’t want to talk about it,” Dean begins. “But why are you here with me when Dick is obviously pissed about my entire existence?”

Cas doesn't know what to make of that, and he's a little offended that Dean apparently thinks that because Cas is a victim of domestic violence, that means he's defeated by it too. “Financial support or not, I should be allowed to have friends, Dean.”

Dean nods, face softening. “Yeah. Yeah I get that. But Dick doesn’t seem to get on you about Charlie, or your LGBT group. Why are you taking this big-ass risk for my friendship?”

 _That_ one hurt. Hurt right down to Cas's gut. Dean doesn't appear to feel the same level of depth in their friendship as Cas does. It really is just a hallucination, an escapist fantasy of Cas's that someone as good as Dean exists in the world. He looks Dean in the eye, wounded, and replies, “If you have to ask that, then maybe you don’t really understand.”

Three points for straight.

The server returns with their food, and there is no flirtatious banter between her and Dean because as soon as Dean sees the food, he only has eyes for it. He digs in.

Cas dresses his salad and asks about Dean's work. Dean talks with his mouth full and Cas thinks it's kind of adorable.

He does a cartoonish impression of his boss, Bobby, setting his sandwich down, and saying, "This one time he threw a wrench at a guy's head for wearing a Browns jersey into his shop and saying that the Reds sucked." Dean mimed chucking a wrench and added, in a loud, deep voice, "' _GIT OUTTA HERE YA GODDAMN IDJIT_.'"

Cas laughs and listens to Dean's work stories, all involving what Dean refers to as the "Bitter Old Man Syndrome" of his dad and Bobby.

Castiel finally agrees that the tortilla soup is the best ever, and he doesn't touch his salad.

He's having such a good time that he accidentally relaxes enough to slip a little bit back into his Russian accent – saying words like "hev" instead of "have," and "plis" instead of "please" – as he asks Dean questions about his classes.

Dean swallows, eyes wide. His cheeks turn red.

Cas smirks and spends the next half hour speaking English with his native accent just to see if he can make Dean's face go all the way to purple.

Three points for gay.

When Dean has just about reached the color of Cas's burgundy suspenders, Dean checks his watch and says, "Shit. Man, how do you do this? I live by the fucking minute and every time I’m around you, it’s like time doesn’t even exist.”

Cas giggles. He _actually giggles_. Just like Owl Tattoo Lady.

" _Hypocrite_ ," mind-Charlie says.

When said lady circles around and drops the check off, Dean stands and gets out his wallet, throwing a twenty on the table.

Cas grins and giggles again, hiding it with a cough into his fist.

He's giggling because his count has now officially totaled to _four points for gay_.

And Cas is fucking _thrilled_.

"What?" Dean asks upon seeing Cas's shit-eating grin.

 _GAY. GAY GAY GAY_ , is all Cas can think at the moment, but he calmly says, "Nothing."

To Castiel's utter delight, they make plans for the following Thursday.


	7. Chapter 3: Cas, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cracks knuckles* We are now right at the precipice of the remaining dramatic shit-storm that is the over-arcing plot of this fic.
> 
> That said, from this chapter on, there is a STANDING TRIGGER WARNING for dub-con, brief or past non-con, excessive violence, and gay bullying.
> 
> Don't worry though, it'll all be worth it, I promise. <3
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely beta, [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela).

When Cas gets home after his Organic Chemistry class, to which he paid no attention whatsoever, Charlie is waiting for him in his bedroom, laptop perched on the knee of her crossed legs. Dick is still out doing whatever boring business stuff Dick does.

She looks up at Cas as he enters, eyes wide, and says, "Tell me everything."

Euphoric grin plastered to his face, Cas stands in front of his vanity, takes off his watch and tie, and unbuttons the top button on his shirt. He walks toward the bed as he rolls his suspenders off his shoulders, letting them dangle at his hips.

"So?" Charlie asks, impatient.

Castiel falls back on his bed with a happy sigh. "It was _amazing_."

Charlie makes a loud, high-pitched noise and claps excitedly.

Cas puts a palm to his ear and says, "Ow."

"Not even sorry," she replies. "So what happened?"

Cas rolls on his side toward Charlie, resting his head on his hand, and recounts every second of his date.

Charlie gasps and claps and says, "Oh my gosh," at all the appropriate times.

Cas finishes his story with, "So there's good news and bad news. Which do you want first?"

"Good," Charlie replies, eager.

Castiel sits up on his knees and pauses, hands poised in front of him. "Dean got _four total points for gay_."

Charlie gasps. "How many points for straight though?"

"This is the best part," Cas begins, and holds up three fingers.

" _No_ ," Charlie says, aghast.

" _Yes_ ," Cas replies.

Charlie makes the high-pitched noise again and Cas wiggles his finger in his ear, grimacing. "You have _got_ to stop doing that."

"Psh." Charlie rolls her eyes. "In the past two years I've known you, only, like, two good things have happened to you. I'm going to be happy for you and I'm going to express it in the form of rampant squealing, and you're going to like it."

Cas's phone beeps in his back pocket. He rolls his eyes and asks, "What does Dick want now?"

When he sees that it's a text from Dean, his breath catches in his throat and he falls over onto his side.

"What?" Charlie asks.

Cas rolls on his back and holds his phone in front of his face. "It's Dean."

"Read it!"

Cas unlocks his phone with shaking hands and reads the message:

_Had a great time at lunch! Except that I’m just now getting over the mortification of eating with someone who orders salad. In public._

Charlie closes her laptop and puts it aside, lying next to Cas and looking up at his phone too. She squeals again, but slightly quieter.

"What do I do?" Cas asks, not blinking or taking his eyes away from his phone in case the message disappears forever.

"Reply!" Charlie says.

"With what?"

"Hmm," Charlie hums. "Well I agree with him. Salads _are_ pretty terrible. It's so much easier to just put all that stuff between two slices of bread and add some deli meat to it."

Cas scoffs. "I swear to God, Charlie, the collective cholesterol count for this state could clog the Hoover Dam."

"Perfect! Say that to him."

"What? No. That's dumb," Cas replies. "Here, what about this."

_In Soviet Russia, salad eat you!_

Charlie reads the text. "Even perfecter!"

Cas hits Send and says, "It's a wonder I was able to learn proper grammar with you around."

Dean replies immediately:

 _That is terrifying_.

"Hey!" Charlie says, putting a hand to her chest, faux-hurt, "English is my second language too."

Furrowing his brow, Cas turns his head toward her and asks, "Really? What's your first?"

"C++."

***

Cas and Charlie walk across the street to Carmel's for dinner, and while they're waiting in line to order, Charlie points out, "You never told me the bad news."

"Oh," Cas says, internally debating on his choice of pasta salads. "I still really can't tell if he's gay."

Charlie stares at him, exasperated.

"What?" Cas asks, giving her a sidelong glance.

"He's obviously gay, Cas! You just have shitty self-esteem."

Cas shrugs. "That may be true, but he still definitely flirted with our server. Our _female_ server."

"Maybe he's bi or pan or something," Charlie suggests.

"Yeah, maybe."

They get to the cashier and order, then take their table number and sit down.

Charlie plops down on her chair and throws her hands in the air, gasping, "Oh my gosh I have an idea."

"What?" Cas asks.

"Hold on, I thought of it before I could think of words to go with it." She presses her fingers to her head, then opens her eyes wide and says, "Be sexy. Like... around him. Like really sexy. And then see how he reacts."

Cas blinks, then stands up from his chair to walk home.

Charlie grabs him by the arm and pulls him back. "Sit back down, I'm serious."

He sits down and pulls a bitch-face, saying, "Charlie. First, I'm the least sexy human being on the planet. I have the social skills and general demeanor of a rabid raccoon. Second, and more importantly, _my life is not a gay porno_."

He says the last sentence loud enough that the old couple sitting at the table next to them stop eating and stare at Cas, offended.

Cas stares back and tells them, "I said it's _not_ a gay porno."

They avert their eyes and continue eating.

Charlie lowers her voice and replies, "Well I want it to be so I think you should try it."

Cas narrows his eyes and tilts his head.

"Oh, don't do your adorable head-tilt thing at me. Do you have any better ideas to find out if Dean's into dudes?" Charlie asks.

Castiel purses his lips. "I could... I don't know... ask him?"

Exasperated, Charlie replies, "Right, because you would totally do that." She mimics his Russian accent, adding, _"'Ehm, Den, argh yew geh?'"_

"You sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger."

"Yeah well so do you sometimes," Charlie replies, crossing her arms across her chest.

"I'm not Austrian!" Cas leans back in his chair and chews on the inside of his cheek, finally relenting to Charlie's insanity. "Okay, so how would I go about doing this sexiness test?"

 ***

Cas and Charlie part ways after dinner, and Cas stops at the store to buy a head of lettuce, a Sharpie, and the biggest, most phallic piece of candy he can find.

***

Castiel doesn't sleep well that night, because his mind is focused primarily on the myriad of ways in which he can sexily put things in his mouth.

It doesn't help that even though they have separate bedrooms, Dick came home and insisted on – _ugh_ – cuddling with Cas in his room. Thankfully, he fell asleep immediately, leaving Cas both turned on at the thought of turning Dean on, and also disgusted that he was turned on while being touched in any way by Dick.

Cas used to be grateful, at first. He enjoyed this, early on, being shown adoration and affection by Dick, who was both his nicest and highest-paying john yet.

When they were still in Russia, some days, Dick would give him money just to get him off the streets for the night. He would buy Cas and Anna a nice hotel room, and not ask for anything in return, leaving them in peace until check-out time the next morning. They ate and hoarded as much continental breakfast food as they could on those days, and then they would spend their remaining hours at a park, eating for free, telling each other fantastical stories they made up in their heads.

They all had happy endings, because that was the most unbelievable, far-off thing either of them could ever imagine.

Life was okay then. Cas and Anna didn't have much, but they had each other, and that's all Cas has ever needed anyway.

He had no idea that three years later would find him in another country, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams, receiving a formal education, and hating every minute of it, because Anna isn't here to share it with him.

Castiel is no longer a person. He's just a mail-order Russian bride for a spoiled little brat with daddy issues. An old, broken toy that still has a shred of sentimental value, used only to comfort Dick on the rare occasions when his cold, tortured heart needs to feel his pathetic, mutilated version of love.

Some days, Cas pities him.

" _Stockholm Syndrome_ ," mind-Dean says.

Cas lifts Dick's arm from his waist gently and slides out from underneath it, padding quietly to the couch so that he can think about Dean in peace.

***

The next morning, Cas wakes up early and slides back into bed with Dick in order to avoid a conflict.

He closes his eyes and pretends he's asleep when Dick stirs, pulling Cas closer to him and groaning. "'Morning, babe," he says, sleepily kissing the back of Cas's neck.

Castiel suppresses a shudder.

His stomach sinks when Cas feels Dick grind against him, hard. Cas tenses, bile rising in his throat, heart racing, because he knew this would happen when he crawled back into bed, and he hates himself for not choosing the fighting over the fucking. Cas is a coward. A filthy whore who uses his body to keep Dick passive, because he's too afraid of the consequences when Dick isn't.

Cas braces himself for the agonizing pain of unprepped barebacking as Dick trails kisses along his shoulders and presses his fingers into Castiel's hips.

By the grace of God, Dick's alarm goes off, and he huffs a laugh into Castiel's neck, murmuring, "No fun for us today. I have to get to work early."

Castiel remains still as Dick sits up and presses a kiss to Cas's temple, sliding off the bed and heading toward the shower.

Cas finally lets out the breath he'd been holding.

 ***

When Dick leaves for the day, Cas rolls out of bed and gets ready for the big game.

Not the baseball game, but the game of figuring out Dean's enigmatic sexual orientation.

There are probably more mature ways of handling this situation, but, as Charlie pointed out, they're not nearly as fun as this one.

Cas arrives at the game and takes a seat on the bleachers, looking around.

There's a man several rows up from him and to the left, sitting under the minimal shade of the small awning, wearing a green WSU baseball cap and sunglasses. He's hunched over and rubs his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses.

He has the exact same dimples as Dean.

Castiel unwraps his bright red, cherry sucker and pops it into his mouth, then pulls out his phone and texts Dean:

 _I'll see you at the game_.

Dean is at the side of the field in front of the dugout, his back to Cas, lobbing a baseball to one of his teammates – Cas recognizes him from the LGBTQA Alliance, an English major named Chuck – back and forth, back and forth.

Castiel likes most things American, like loud, obnoxious laughter, 24-hour diners, and beat literature, but he's never really understood the allure of baseball.

Of course, he would never tell Dean that.

His phone beeps and he checks it:

_This game?_

Cas can almost _hear_ the panic in Dean's voice.

Then Cas can _literally_ hear the panic in Dean's voice when one of his teammates yells, "C'mon, Winchester, sometime today!" and Dean replies with a loud, angry, "Give me a minute!"

Cas responds:

_Yes, this game that we are both now currently at. And you should probably listen to him._

Moments later, Dean runs out onto the field, catching the ball Chuck throws at him without even looking. He scans the audience and Cas gets into position, leaning against the bleachers and casually, slowly, pulling the sucker out of his mouth with a pop.

Dean spots him, and Cas is pretty sure the gulp Dean makes echoes throughout the silent field.

Dean's gaze lifts above him, to the man Cas spotted earlier, and Dean nods at him.

Suddenly, Cas's understanding of the closet-case that is Dean Winchester becomes slightly clearer.

Cas continues fucking the lollipop in his mouth, reveling in every moment Dean looks up at him. Cas grins, candy perched between his teeth, when Dean finally turns that shade of purple Cas has been looking forward to bringing out on Dean's face all day.

Dean's pitching is impressive, to say the least. The first inning goes quickly, and Cas texts him:

_Having fun?_

He's expecting a reply of, " _Fuck you, you fucking fuck_ ," but instead, he gets:

 _Absolutely_.

Well. Two can play at that game.

***

After his Gays and Lesbians in Film class – they watched Hitchcock's _Rope_ which, while brilliant, Cas kind of hated – Castiel heads to Bobby's Auto Shop downtown, which Cas never knew was only about two blocks away from Dick's penthouse.

Cas has never taken a car in to get looked at. He barely knows how to drive one, let alone how it works. Dick has people to do that for him, and on those days, Cas picks out one of Dick's other three cars to drive.

He texts Charlie:

_Why would I need to take my car in to get fixed today?_

She replies:

_You could crash it._

Cas considers that, then types:

_Too soon. That's how Dean's mom died._

After a moment, she says:

_Shit. Oil change?_

Cas narrows his eyes, trying to figure out why oil in a car needs changed. Just to be sure Charlie isn't fucking with him, he Googles it.

Castiel was able to master the English language and his American accent in under a year. He can churn out a 10-page research paper on postmodern feminist theory in two hours. And he can spot a knock-off Rolex from a mile away.

But he did not know that cars needed to get their oil changed.

He drives to Bobby's auto shop and stifles a laugh when he meets Bobby, _the_ Bobby, huddled over a large desk by the front door that's piled high with paperwork and empty coffee cups. He's wearing a Reds ball cap and a dirty gray jumpsuit with " _Bobby's Auto Shop_ " embroidered in red italic font above his left breast pocket.

There's a fleck of egg in his scraggly beard that he scratches out while reading over a piece of paper.

Castiel clears his throat. "Hello."

Bobby looks up and does not smile. "Mornin'. How can I help you?"

"I think I need to change oil." Cas pauses and adds for good measure, "In my vehicle."

Digging around in his pile of papers, Bobby pulls one out and says, "Then you've come to the right place."

He starts filling out the paper and asking Cas all sorts of questions about his car, none of which Cas can answer, except for the make and model, which makes Bobby's eyebrows shoot up.

"Well, that's..." Bobby begins, and he clears his throat.  "No problem. I'll have one of my guys look at it for you. You think you need anything else? Tire rotation? Replace the air filters?"

Cas frowns, completely oblivious. "No, just the oil change will be fine, thanks."

“’Course,” Bobby replies. “Just sign here and feel free to wait in the waiting area. It’ll be about a half hour.”

“Actually," Cas's heart quickens. "I’m a friend of Dean’s. May I go say hello to him? If he’s here?”

Bobby narrows his eyes and takes a gulp of his coffee, which appears to have the viscosity of molasses. “Uhh… yeah, sure," Bobby finally replies, pointing his thumb over his shoulder. "He’s in the garage.”

Castiel nods at him and walks past the desk and into the garage, feeling Bobby's eyes burn Charlie-esque laser beams into the back of his head.

There are only two men in the garage. Cas can see the feet of one of them sticking out from underneath the same car that the other one is bent over.

Cas could recognize the perfect ass of Dean Winchester anywhere.

He tilts his head in awe of it for a moment before snapping his jaw – which had been hanging open – shut, and approaching Dean. "Hello, Dean."

Dean stands up and wipes his hands on a rag. “Hey, Cas.” His lips twitch up but then go back down into a frown.

Cas knew this was a bad idea.

No matter how it turns out, though, it will have been worth it just for the sight of Dean's ass in his jumpsuit. It certainly doesn't help that Dean's arms are covered in grease, and there are lines of it across his cheek and forehead, where it looks like he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Maybe Cas's life really _is_ a gay porno.

Dean's eyes dart to the man under the car. He mumbles quickly, “You have your keys?”

“Oh.” Cas fishes in his pockets and pulls out his keys.

“Great. Point me to her and we’ll take a look.” Dean speeds out of the garage, Cas at his heels.

They get to the parking lot and Cas approaches his Bentley. Dean stops walking, and Cas turns around.

Dean is staring, mouth open, at Cas's car.

Cas looks to his car, then back to Dean, then back to his car again.

 “This is what you _actually drive_?” Dean asks, incredulous.

Castiel doesn't understand what the fuss is about. It's an aluminum box on wheels. Cas's older brother Gabriel once glued four wheels on an empty milk carton to give to Cas as a birthday gift and it was basically the same thing. He tosses the keys to Dean, looking bewildered. “Yes, why?”

“Dude. This is a half a million dollar car. And it’s yours.”

Cas replies, “No it isn’t. I just drive it. It’s Dick’s.”

Dean finally manages to tear his eyes away from the car and back to Cas. He clears his throat. “What work do you need done?”

Cas shrugs. “Just an oil change.”

“So you brought it in here,” Dean concludes.

Cas nods. “Yes.”

“For an oil change.”

“Yes.”

Dean blinks. “And the game earlier?”

A small smile spreads across Dean's face as Cas shrugs again, stifling his own smile. He offers, palms up, “I’m a fan?”

Dean grins and takes a step toward Cas. “Are you stalking me?”

Cas takes a step toward Dean. “So what if I am?”

An image of Dean bending Cas over the Bentley flits through his mind. Cas wants to lean forward just a couple inches, close the gap between them and taste Dean's lips. He wants to run his fingers through Dean's sweaty hair, which is still by some miracle carefully styled atop his head. He wants to stare into those beautiful green eyes for all eternity, fall into the warm comfort of Dean's embrace and never come back out.

Dean steps away from Cas, clearing his throat and scratching the back of his neck. “Cool. Okay so I’ll go ahead and get this done for you. I’m sure you need to head home anyway. Probably have a lot of homework.”

Cas is getting _real_ tired of this dance of theirs. “Dean…”

Dean averts his eyes, and Cas steps closer to him, reaching forward to caress the side of Dean’s hand, hanging limp at his side.

Dean freezes in place, and stares at Cas, curious and open. Quietly, he asks, “Is Dick really your boyfriend?”

Castiel doesn't want to tell Dean the truth. He wants to forget the truth exists at all. He wants Dean to be one of his stories to tell Anna, with the happily ever after and the total lack of conflict. But that's not life. Dick's Bentley is behind him, hovering there as a symbol of everything Cas hates about himself.

Cas was bought, just like the car. “Not really. Not voluntarily, anyway.”

Dean furrows his brow. “Voluntarily?”

Bobby steps out the shop and shouts, “The hell you doing, boy? Get the hell back to work. This is a body shop, not a goddamn nail salon.”

Dean coughs and takes a big step away from Cas, ducking his head and scratching the back of his neck, circling around toward the car. “Sure thing, Bobby. Be right there.”

Bobby goes back inside, and Dean shakes his head. “Look, man. I can’t…" He looks down. "I don’t…” Then he stops, and puts his hands on his hips, taking a deep breath and finally looking at Cas, exhaustion and exasperation etched over his pristine features. “I’ll have your car ready in a half hour.”


	8. Chapter 4: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have some emotions.
> 
> If you're curious about the inspiration for the baseball plot of this fic, here's a short piece I wrote about it called [Blood, Sweat, & Tears.](http://bettydays.tumblr.com/post/87188376607/blood-sweat-tears)
> 
> As always, big thanks to my beta, [Michaela Grey.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela)

Dean wakes up on Thursday morning to the smell of pancakes and bacon. He throws on a pair of pajama pants and stumbles into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

Sam is standing in front of the stove, flipping pancakes high into the air and whistling.

Sam Winchester, in general, has been a lifelong pain in the ass, but when Dean sees that a pot of coffee is already brewed, his level of brotherly affection suddenly skyrockets.

"Morning," Sam says, cheerful, while Dean takes a coffee cup down from the cupboard.

He fills it, then pauses, narrowing his eyes.

Sam only ever makes breakfast when he wants something from Dean.

Dean takes a sip and leans against the counter. "So if we get this over with _before_ we eat, can I still have pancakes? By the way, the answer is already no."

Sam turns on his heel, a plate with a huge stack of pancakes in one hand, and a plate with a pile of bacon in the other. "Come on, Dean! You don't even know what I'm going to ask yet."

"I saw your bedroom light on at 1AM. And you woke up at 6AM to make breakfast. Ever since you were five years old, you have needed no fewer than nine hours of sleep to be a functioning human being, so whatever you're about to ask has got to be a doozie." Dean takes a gulp of coffee. "So the answer is no."

Sam walks to the table and sets the food down, mumbling, "Just shut up and eat your damn breakfast."

"Don't mind if I do." Dean follows suit, and sits down to pour syrup on his pancakes.

Sam stares at him.

Sighing, Dean insists, "Spit it out already."

"Can I hang out with Jess tonight?"

Without hesitation, Dean replies, "No."

"Ugh!" Sam throws his hands up, exasperated. "Why _not_?"

Dean shovels a bite of pancakes in his mouth and says around it, muffled, "Because you have a calculus final tomorrow."

"So?"

"So..." Dean swallows. "You're getting a C in calc, and you need to stay home and study. I have to study tonight too. It'll be a party."

"It's AP!" Sam exclaims. "My C will be weighted as a B in my GPA."

"And what does B stand for?" Dean asks.

Sam purses his lips and crosses his arms over his chest. "Bad."

"That's right," Dean replies, pointing with a piece of bacon in Sam's direction. "You're the fancy-pants who wants to go to Stanford, and we, the Winchesters, barely have the funds to keep this sad little roof over our heads, let alone fly your scrawny ass to the other side of the country to go to one of the nicest, and _most expensive_ schools ever. Which means that until Stanford starts accepting glamour shots instead of transcripts, the only way you're going to make it there is with your brains. Which means you need an A in calc."

John lumbers into the room, yawning and scratching his stomach. "Morning."

"Hey Dad?" Sam asks, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Dean shakes his head at Sam, stern. "Sammy, don't you even–"

"Can I go over to Jess's house tonight?"

"Who's Jess?" John asks, gruff, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"My girlfriend."

John walks over to the table and claps Sam on the back before taking a seat across from Dean. "Hey! Congrats, son! That's great news. What's she like?"

Sam sighs, looking off into the distance – to which Dean rolls his eyes and grumbles, "Oh my _god_." – and replies, "She's amazing."

John chuckles.

"So can I go?" Sam asks.

Dean gives a terse, "No," while John says, "Sure, why not?"

"Because, _Dad_ ," Dean begins. "Sam has a calculus final tomorrow that he really needs to study for."

John huffs a laugh while he piles pancakes onto his plate. "If there's one thing I've learned, son, it's that a man has to take a break every now and again. Life isn't all work, work, work. Having a girlfriend at Sam's age is important, and we can't all be shut-ins." He pauses, eyeing Dean as if to say, " _like you_ ," and continues, all trace of levity gone. "I'm not gonna let Sam turn into you."

Dean feels like he just got shot. His stomach is in knots and he thinks he might puke. John has said some cruel things to Dean in his life, but those words take the cake.

 _I'm not gonna let Sam turn into you_.

The sentence crashes around in Dean's brain. He can't breathe. He can't react. He can only stare straight ahead and wish that he never existed at all, because at this moment, it just doesn't seem worth it anymore.

John takes a sip of coffee and continues. "A young man needs a girlfriend. And you've shown so little interest in women that some days I worry you'll start batting for the wrong team." He laughs heartily behind his mug, which ironically reads, " _#1 Dad_."

Dean clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath, trying to set aside his anger at the hypocrisy of his father, who forced him, day in and day out, to focus on baseball instead of school. This man, who was most likely the cause of their mother's death, is the reason Dean has to be a parent at all to Sam. John spends every damn day drinking and gambling and doing whatever the hell else, and the only reason he has a job is because Bobby, who is also a widower, pities him.

John laughs harder at Dean's apparent hesitation. "What, you're not really a fag, are you? Because then I might just have to change my name." He nudges Sam with his elbow and winks.

Sam's eyes are wide as he looks back and forth between them.

"Dad." Dean swallows, and shuts his eyes tight, willing himself to stay calm. "This is a really important final for Sam. After this month, he'll have all summer to spend with Jess. But he's getting a C right now–"

"Whoa!" John exclaims. "That's great, Sammy!"

Dean gapes. "No, it's not. He needs to get an A so he can get into Stanford."

John scoffs and replies, "Geez. Lighten up, Dean. You sound like a nagging mother."

That's it. Dean can't take any more of this. Standing abruptly, he yells, "That might be because _we don't HAVE ONE!_ " He bites his tongue to avoid adding the words, " _And it's all your fucking fault,"_ before storming off to his bedroom and slamming the door shut behind him.

***

Dean spends the rest of the morning fuming. He tries to study but he can't, so he goes to the batting cages to blow off some steam.

He has a trick that he learned when he was young: for every ball he hits, he imagines it's the face of someone he hates.

When he was a kid, he'd bash in the faces of teachers who gave him hell and kids who were mean to him, but a grand majority of the time, he imagined hitting the stupid grin off of John Winchester's face.

Now, at 21 years old, filled with anger and sadness and a whole bunch of other complicated things he just doesn't want to fucking think about anymore, he bashes his father's face in every time the machine lobs a ball at him.

Again, and again, and again.

At five years old, shortly after his mother's death, John enrolled Dean in tee-ball. He used their food money to buy Dean's baseball glove and bat so that Dean could practice. That's the week Dean learned how to shoplift, sneaking cans of powdered baby formula into his Lion King backpack so that Sammy wouldn't starve.

The bat cracks the baseball and sends it slamming into the fence in front of him.

At six years old, John uprooted them from Dallas and moved them to Dayton without a place to live. For six months, their home was the Impala. Dean should have been going to kindergarten, but none of them knew that until Bobby rescued them, giving John a job in exchange for the promise that he would start going to AA meetings.

The rough calluses of Dean's hand scratch across the surface of the bat's handle as he smashes another ball into the fence.

At ten years old, John started locking Dean out of the house after school with a bucket of 50 baseballs, a bat, and a tee, telling him that he wasn't allowed back inside until he emptied the bucket ten times. Dean would come back inside after dark, hungry and tired and palms bleeding for lack of their present calluses, and John would be passed out on the couch, Sammy curled up on his chest. Dean couldn't use his hands to make himself any food, and he couldn't pick up a pencil to do his homework, so he went to bed hungry most nights, and his grades started slipping.

Dean's hips burn as he twists them with the torque of his movements, feeling the blissful reverberation of the next ball as it slams into the bat.

At sixteen years old, Dean had to get a job at a fast food joint to make ends meet because they could no longer live on Ramen and canned tomatoes, and they were quickly growing out of their tiny apartment. Dean learned to function on three hours of sleep per night; his life consisted of school, baseball, work, and then coming home at 11PM at the end of every long day and doing homework until 4AM just so he could skate by with straight Ds. Sammy got the brains, Dean got the brawn.

As Dean swings the bat, again and again, his father's words from that morning echo in his head: " _I'm not gonna let Sam turn into you_."

Dean can barely wrap his head around the depth of meaning between those eight little words as the last baseball collides with his bat so hard, the wood shatters into pieces in his hands.

Just like everything else.

***

Dean is fuming slightly less from the events of the morning as he pulls into the parking lot of Dublin Pub and parks next to Cas's Bentley.

He walks into the bar and finds Cas at a table, wearing his totally ridiculous yet incredibly sexy get-up, except today his shirt is light pink and there's a fedora perched on top of his perpetual albeit carefully-constructed sex hair.

Cas is poring over the menu when Dean sits down across from him.

"You should try the potato soup," Dean suggests. "It's the best–"

"–in the world, yes, I see that. It's in the description this time." Cas looks up from the menu and grins at Dean, asking, "What's with this town and its soups?"

Dean shrugs. "Hipsters?"

"Fair."

The server approaches their table and claps Dean on the back. "Look at that! It's Winchester Junior!"

"Hey, Rufus." Dean lifts his arm to shake his hand in greeting.

"Long time no see, brother. And you brought someone who isn't Sam! What is this, the apocalypse?" Rufus asks.

"Just about," Dean replies. "This is my friend Cas. Cas, Rufus."

Rufus extends his hand for Cas to shake. "You're gonna try the soup, right?"

"If it's the best in the world, I don't see how I can't," Cas tells him.

"Good man," Rufus says, taking a pen from behind his ear and scrawling a note on a pad of paper. "You want your usual, Dean?"

"You know it," Dean says with a crooked smile.

"Shot of Tully today too?" Rufus asks.

"Dude. It's noon."

Rufus looks up from his pad of paper. "So... you want it in a cup of coffee?"

Dean chuckles. "Nah. I gotta go to work later."

"You know if you light a match within a five foot radius of Bobby that whole damn shop will go up in flames, right?" Rufus cackles and claps Dean on the back again. "I'll be right back with your orders."

When Rufus walks away, Cas leans across the table. "I don't understand how you can claim to not have many friends when you seem to know everyone in the city."

Dean shrugs. "I know everybody through Bobby. About 90% of the east side take their cars to him."

Cas tilts his head and narrows his eyes. "Are you okay?"

Perceptive motherfucker.

Dean lowers his eyes and shrugs again. In any other situation with anyone else, Dean would say, "Yep," and change the subject, because Dean has always been what everyone seems to want him to be: a strong, immovable force with a will like iron, and a statuesque shell of stone.

Dean isn't any of those things, but he has lived so long within his shell that there's not much left of him at all.

For the first time, Dean is going to be completely honest. He looks back up at Cas, takes a deep breath, and replies, "No. I'm really not."

Seeing as how Dean has never done this before, he expects Cas to say what he would expect anyone to say in response to this: "Oh, that sucks," and then move on to discuss himself.

Instead, Cas knits his eyebrows together in concern and asks, "What's wrong?"

So Dean tells him. He tells Cas about what happened that morning, about his overbearing father and the myriad of destructive addictions he possesses, about having to raise Sammy all by himself, about the calluses on his hands and how he got them, about how much he wishes his mother was still around, about how Bobby is a son of a bitch but has always been the Winchesters' knight in shining armor, about his house and how he wants some spare time to finish the basement so he can finally have some real fucking privacy for once in his sad life. Lastly, although he skirts around naming a specific gender, for the first time, he admits to Cas that he wants something more in his life, that he wants someone to share it with.

Cas listens to all of it with interest. Rufus comes and goes with their food without saying a word, and neither of them really eats. They're enrapt in each other, and when Dean finally finishes, he breathes out, long and slow, feeling a massive weight lifted off his shoulders.

Of course, Castiel – perfect, beautiful, brilliant Castiel – replies simply with, "Thank you for sharing that with me." The expression on his face is open and honest and caring, and Dean has never seen such an expression directed at him before. He has never seen the face of true gratitude, and he certainly never expected to see it just by being himself.

It's enough to make him want to cry, want to fall into Cas's arms and bury his head in his neck and take the weight of the world off his fucking shoulders for just once in his goddamn life. Then, while he's falling down this tremendous mudslide of emotion, open up the dam of romantic feelings he has for Cas. That he might be falling in love with him. That he's the most beautiful person Dean has ever known. That he wants to kiss every inch of his skin over and over and over because there are no words to properly describe how much Dean just simply, utterly, wholly _wants_ Cas.

But he doesn't do any of that.

Because he still can't figure out how.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He has never seen the face of true gratitude, and he certainly never expected to see it just by being himself." I wrote this line specifically as a shout-out to you all, dear readers. Whenever I get a comment thanking me for writing a fic, and knowing I put so much of who I am in everything I write, I just... I don't know. It's an amazing feeling, being thanked just for being myself. It's what keeps me writing, and I appreciate you all so much!


	9. Chapter 4: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter devoted to set-up and character development! Now let's move on to some plot.
> 
> PS You should totally try the potato soup at Dub Pub.
> 
> [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela) is best beta reader.

Castiel isn't nearly as early for their second "date" as he was for their first. He arrives at Dublin Pub only ten minutes before noon, situating himself at a table near the front of the dingy old bar.

Cas spent the last day avoiding every thought and feeling he possibly could, choosing instead to delve into his textbooks and study for his upcoming finals.

Charlie had texted him after his oil change to ask how it went, and Cas had replied honestly: " _I really still don't know_."

Gay point for blushing furiously at the baseball game. Straight point for avoiding Cas the rest of the game and leaving immediately after. Gay point for being flustered in Cas's presence at the shop. Straight point for dismissing him after Bobby caught them holding hands. Gay point for letting them hold hands in the first place. Straight point for... just because it would all be too good to be true, and no one as good as Dean Winchester could ever love the filthy, tortured pieces of shrapnel that make up Castiel Krushnic's heart.

Dean Winchester is just one big enigma wrapped up in a beautiful body and a smile with dimples the size of quarter slots.

Cas comes to the conclusion that maybe his advances are unwelcome, but Dean has never specifically turned him down or asked Cas to stop pursuing him, and if he were bothered by it, he probably wouldn't be taking time out of his busy schedule to have lunch together. Heterosexually.

Then again, maybe Dean is just really oblivious.

Or overly polite. Maybe he thinks it's rude to turn Cas down, and it's cute that someone as pathetic as Cas has a little schoolboy crush on him.

Maybe Dean is making fun of Cas behind his back, like Cas's brothers and schoolmates. Although when they did it, it was usually in front of him instead of behind him, and involved bruises and public humiliation.

" _Chill, dude. Paranoid much_?" mind-Dean asks.

Then real-Dean approaches and says, "You should try the potato soup. It's the best–"

"–in the world, yes, I see that. It's in the description this time." Cas is taken out of his reverie and feels immediately consoled now that Dean is in his presence, smiling at Cas and taking a seat across from him, providing that warm light that he always manages to bring into Cas's cold, dark life.

They banter momentarily and then have a pleasant conversation with their server, whom Dean apparently knows.

Dean's eyes aren't as bright as they usually are, and his shoulders are a little slumped. He doesn't smile or make eye contact as often as Cas is used to seeing.

It makes Cas's chest feel heavy.

He absolutely cannot help himself when he blurts out, "Are you okay?"

Dean freezes, like he does when Cas says something that takes him by surprise, like Dean isn't used to people caring about him. Or maybe he's just not used to people caring enough to see him at all.

After a long hesitation, Dean says, "No. I'm really not."

Just like that, a door opens between them. It's only one of many obstacles that Cas knows he has to overcome to keep Dean in his life, but a step forward is a step forward, no matter how small. Dean trusting him enough to be able to say, " _I'm not okay_ ," fills Cas with hope.

When Cas asks him what's wrong, Dean averts his eyes and says, "I had a rough morning." He tells Cas about what his dad said to him, and his little brother Sam, and how he misses his mom. He tells Cas about baseball, and his house, and most importantly, that he's tired of being alone.

Castiel's heart, which had been crushed under the weight of his empathy for Dean, suddenly soars, and he takes note of how carefully Dean avoids naming a specific gender.

That's at least five hundred points for gay.

Cas listens, and asks questions, and sits on his hands to avoid reaching out to Dean, to show him affection, an act of solidarity, a gesture of – if nothing else – a budding close friendship that both of them so desperately need in their lives.

***

After lunch, they bid Rufus goodbye and leave the restaurant, walking slowly to their cars in silence.

"So..." Dean begins, scratching the back of his neck.

"So," Cas replies, thumbs in his suspenders.

Cas wants to ask, " _Wanna make out?"_ or " _Would you rather adopt a child or find a surrogate mother?"_ or _"If you could only fuck in one position for the rest of your life, which would you choose?_ "

Instead, Cas asks, "Do you have work?"

"Yeah," Dean replies. "In a few hours. Do you... want to go for a walk, maybe?"

Cas beams at him. "I'd love to."

They walk together down Fifth Street, past the shady bars and the nicer ones, the tattoo joints and the sex shops. Despite the fact that Cas has spent the last two years of his life looking down on this city he now calls home, he has never walked its streets, has never met its people, has never seen its beauty: the old train that barrels across the tracks overhead as they walk under the bridge, the church bells that ring every fifteen minutes, the public art on every surface.

This is the city that Dean sees. This is Dean's home. And by his side, Castiel finally feels at home in it too.

After several minutes, Dean breaks their affectionate silence. "Can I ask you a question?"

Movement in the corner of Cas's eye catches his attention. As they're passing a parking lot, Cas sees a person in the distance, standing out among all the other people walking around. His stride is familiar. His slicked-back hair is familiar. His black leather jacket is familiar.

 _Gabriel_.

"Cas?" Dean asks.

Castiel blinks, and the man is gone. Just a trick of the light. It couldn't have been Gabriel, it couldn't have been a ghost. Cas shakes his head, clearing it. "Oh. Yes. Of course."

Hesitating, Dean scratches his head. "How, or when, I guess, did you... come out? I mean, you don't have to answer if it's a sensitive topic or whatever, I just..." he trails off.

"You just what?" Cas asks.

He shrugs. "I'm curious, I guess."

Cas huffs a laugh. "It's a long story. And not a happy one. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yeah," Dean answers. "I mean, if you want to tell it. I want to, yeah. Hear it, that is."

Just to be a jerk, Castiel begins his story in his Russian accent and immediately feels Dean tense up next to him. He smiles at that, being able to make Dean flustered, knowing it'll be the last time he smiles before recounting one of the three most tragic moments of his life. "When I was a child, I had a best friend named Afanasy Bugayev, but everyone called him Alfie..."

***

Alfie and Castiel were inseparable from the age of six years old. They met on the first day of secondary school. Cas liked the color of his shirt because it was the same color as Castiel's eyes. He walked up to Alfie and told him as much, and Alfie, noting Cas's brown shirt, said the same about his own eyes.

It was a silly coincidence that drew them together, and bonded them against the masses of other students and the fear of their education to come.

They were instantly friends after that.

Castiel thought all boys looked at other boys the way he did. He was shy around men with chiseled jaws and sharp cheekbones. He got along better with girls than with boys, playing more with his twin sister Anna's friends than trying to make any of his own, Alfie notwithstanding. He liked playing with dolls just as much as he liked building with blocks. Most importantly, he could not bring himself to care about the difference between pink and blue. He liked them both, but he liked purple most.

Alfie wasn't like Cas. He liked the color blue, and he thought girls were gross, and he was never shy around anyone as far as Cas could tell. He liked playing with trucks and crashing action figures into each other, making loud explosive noises with his mouth as he elaborated on the epic scene he created in his imagination.

Castiel didn't have any toys of his own, but that was okay, because he had the most fun just watching Alfie play with his.

And Alfie was okay putting on a show for Cas.

Sometimes, when no one was around, Alfie would let Cas hold his hand. Cas didn't understand why it had to be such a secret, but he enjoyed those fleeting moments while they lasted.

As the years passed, Castiel and Alfie grew apart at school, but remained connected outside of it. Alfie liked hanging out with his male friends during school days and Cas preferred to keep in the company of Anna and her friends. They liked the same things he did, and Alfie's friends didn't.

At ten years old, Cas started watching male figure skating, obsessing over it. His parents didn't have the time or money to take him to skating rinks, so Cas would slide around on the kitchen linoleum in his only pair of socks that didn't have holes in them, twirling and dancing and humming music.

Whenever his older brother Michael caught him doing this, he would shove Cas to the ground, or throw him in the cupboard, where Cas would be trapped until his mother or Naomi or Anna came around to let him out.

Castiel's favorite figure skater was Andrei Griazev, whose competitions Cas always tried to catch on their small, barely functioning television.

Cas thought he was being manly for once, like he was supposed to be, like his brothers and his dad, because he didn't understand that there was a difference between figure skating and ice hockey. It was all sportsmanship, all competition. Except that one of them involved bedazzled unitards, and that was the one Cas preferred.

One day, Anna found a poster of Andrei and purchased it for Castiel with the money she made selling cookies at school. "Isn't he dreamy?" she asked.

Cas sighed, and without being able to stop himself, agreed.

He thought all boys could appreciate when they thought other boys were handsome.

When Cas taped the poster to the wall adjacent to his upper bunk-bed, he found out he was wrong. About everything.

"What the fuck is this?" Michael exclaimed the next morning, leaning onto Cas's bed and pointing at the poster.

"It's Andrei Griazev. He's a figure skater," Cas replied.

"Would the both of you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to get our beauty rest," Gabriel told them from the bottom bunk.

Michael stomped over to his bed on the other side of the small room. Naomi and Anna had the next room over, and Cas's parents slept in the attic. He pulled out a shoebox from under his bed and rifled through it, picked up a shiny piece of paper, and tossed it on Cas's chest. "That's what you should be wanting to hang up on your wall."

Cas picked up the piece of paper. It was folded into quarters, and it looked like it had been folded and unfolded hundreds of times. The corners were worn and the ink was faded near the creases. Cas opened it to find a picture of a naked woman, blond, walking on a beach and throwing her hair back. Her breasts and hips were shapely and her lips were pouted together as she stared seductively at the camera.

Shrugging, Cas handed the picture back to Michael. "Sorry, I really don't want this."

Michael scoffed and took the paper from him, shoving it in his back pocket. "God, you're so gay."

It rang a bell to Cas, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

After Michael fled the room, Cas asked, "Gabe?"

Exasperated, Gabriel replied, "What?"

"What's gay?"

"It's when you want to shove things in your butthole," Gabriel explained.

"Really?"

Gabe sighed. "No, bro. It's when two dudes love each other very much. Or two chicks. Whatever. Now shut up and let me sleep."

Castiel mulled that idea over for many months, and did as much research as he could as privately as he could, not wanting to endure Michael's apparent wrath toward the concept of gay.

He didn't find anything that was more helpful than Gabriel's succinct description. _When two dudes love each other very much_.

Castiel finally came to the conclusion that he loved Alfie very much.

So, just like when they first met, when he told Alfie that he liked his shirt, Cas walked up to him and told him that he loved him, very much.

Alfie had been swinging on a swing-set and didn't really respond.

When Alfie's swing slowed to a halt, he stood up from it and stared at Castiel, then shoved him as hard as he could and ran away.

Castiel didn't know what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't that.

The next day was the first day Cas wondered if he had died and gone to hell.

When all his schoolmates had found out, including his brothers and sisters, everyone called him gay, or a fag, or queer, or any number of colorful terms.

But Castiel never denied a single one of them. He would never apologize for loving Afanasy Bugayev. He would never take it back. No matter how many times he got hit, no matter how much it hurt, he would never let himself become someone he wasn't.

From then on, Castiel was bullied so much that, when his father started inexplicably making decent money, they moved out of their house and into a bigger one, and Castiel had a room all to himself to study. He had a tutor too, and his parents let him stop going to school at all, letting him opt instead for private lessons.

Michael turned on him early on, and barely spoke to him anymore, except in anger. Cas got thrown in the cupboard, or pantry, or cellar multiple times a day. Michael would spit on him and throw him against walls and tell him he wasn't part of the family, that he didn't deserve to breathe the same air as everyone else.

One day, when Castiel had finally eclipsed Michael in height, Cas fought back. Michael shoved Cas in the pantry and tried to close the door, but Cas had a test to study for and didn't have time for his games. So he propped his foot in the door, preventing Michael from closing it. Then he shoved the door so hard that Michael went flying on the other side of it.

Cas wanted to take that moment of stunned hesitance to beat the shit out of Michael, show him how it felt to be punched and pushed and insulted, every minute of every day.

Instead, he just rushed toward his room.

Michael followed him, then pulled him back by the collar and threw him against a wall, and grabbed his throat. "You got a problem with the way I treat you, fag? Huh? You think it's okay to fight back, like you could ever beat me? You don't belong here, queer. You don't belong anywhere."

Michael raised his fist, but Gabriel appeared and caught it just in time. "Whoa there, buddy. Calm your tits."

"Stay out of this, Gabe," Michael said through clenched teeth.

"I would, but..." Gabriel pulled Michael off of Cas and stepped between them. "I've grown a bit partial to the people most genetically similar to me. Call it narcissism, but I have high hopes that this kid will one day grow up to potentially become a fraction as awesome as yours truly." He hooked his arm around Cas's shoulder and smiled down at Michael.

Michael pointed in Cas's face. "He can't protect you forever."

"You're right about that," Gabe replied. "But I'll happily blackmail you for eternity."

Michael laughed, arrogant. "How? You don't have anything on me."

Gabriel reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of silky pink panties. "Recognize these?"

Scoffing and rolling his eyes, his hesitated and then his face flushed. "Th-those aren't mine."

"Oh?" Gabe looked at them, then slowly leaned in to sniff them, and pulled him away from him again. He made a sour face, and put the panties back in his pocket. "Certainly smell like you." He reached into another pocket and pulled out three Polaroid pictures. "These babies are _definitely_ yours though."

From his peripheral vision, Cas saw that the three pictures were of Michael, holding the camera at an angle above him facing down at himself, wearing the silky pink panties in question. And nothing else.

Michael’s eyes went wide, and he swiped for the pictures.

Gabriel pulled them out of reach. "Ah ah ah. That's why this is called _blackmail_ , you Neanderthal. Here's the deal: lay off our little bro, and these will never see the light of day. Keep pushing, and I'll plaster these bad boys all over the country. That's a promise."

Jaw clenched, Michael stormed away. He never acknowledged or spoke to Cas again.

Castiel still wonders from time to time that maybe he really did die on that day he told Alfie he loved him, and has been living his life in hell ever since, punished for a sin he didn't commit, and looking for a way out that he'll never be able to find.

***

Dean takes a deep breath. "Holy shit."

Cas nods in reply. They're sitting on a park bench on the riverfront, staring at the cityscape in the distance.

Dean rubs his hands on his jeans. "Um. Thank you. For sharing that with me. That was... intense."

Cas smiles at him, and says, "Any time."

"And I'm sorry that happened to you. No one deserves that," Dean adds quietly.

In response, Castiel reaches out his hand to rest on Dean's, and Dean turns his palm up. Castiel threads their fingers together and tilts his head onto Dean's shoulder.

He leans into Cas's touch, and rests his cheek on Cas's head.

Maybe hell isn't so bad after all. Or maybe Cas has just finally found a way out.

They sit there for a few minutes. Or maybe a few hours. Or maybe even days. Castiel isn't sure. But he knows that however long it is will never be long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the saddest part of this chapter is that Cas referred to everyone he hung out with as Anna's friends and not his own. I DIDN'T KNOW I DID THAT UNTIL I REREAD IT THERE IS SOMETHING SRSLY WRONG WITH ME.
> 
> PPS I need a lot of validation right now to keep from getting distracted by the new season of Orange is the New Black. So are you still reading? Do you still like it? Are you ready for the full extent of Cas's intense backstory WHICH WHEN I TYPED OUT WAS LIKE A BOOK IN ITSELF??


	10. Chapter 5: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This gif](https://24.media.tumblr.com/56dff0d9cbc2f793a589c6580e581a83/tumblr_n47n2w2mYu1rz1wnio1_500.gif) accurately conveys my thoughts on this chapter.
> 
> *Slowly sets a fresh box of tissues in front of you*
> 
> *Huddles in a corner and uses [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela) as a human shield against the oncoming feedback*

Leaving the restaurant, Dean and Cas meander to their cars and stand between them. Cas's remarkable blue eyes are always trained on Dean, looking right at him, seeing right through him and all his bullshit masks.

It suddenly occurs to Dean that he has done a terrible job of pretending he's straight. It's like he forgot he had to pretend at all.

And it's the happiest he's ever been.

Maybe he should just stop pretending completely.

But today is not the day for that.

"So..." Dean begins, unable to say what he really wants, which is, " _I want to lick your collarbone_ ," or " _Please, drag your nails down my back so hard that the guys ask about it in the locker room tomorrow_ ," or " _It's really nice outside today, let's go lay on the grass and look at clouds together all day._ "

"So," Cas replies, smirking at him as though he can read his mind. "Do you have work?"

"Yeah, in a few hours." Dean doesn't want this to end, this reprieve from his shell, from all his masks, from the closet he's lived in his entire life. "Do you... want to go for a walk, maybe?"

Cas's face lights up. "I'd love to."

***

If Dean is going to stop pretending, if he's going to embrace who he is and open himself up to the world, he needs to learn how, so he asks Cas about what it was like for him to come out.

"It's a long story," Cas replies. "And not a happy one. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Yeah. I mean, if you want to tell it. I want to, yeah. Hear it, that is," Dean stammers.

Of course, the fucker lays the accent on thick, his rolling, deep voice reverberating down Dean's body straight to his dick. He doesn't know what it is or how Cas does it, but it's absolutely _killing_ Dean. "When I was a child, I had a best friend named Afanasy Bugayev, but everyone called him Alfie..."

Castiel is a magnificent storyteller, and Dean falls into the story with him, in his schoolhouse as a child meeting Alfie for the first time, in his little home where he shared a room with his two older brothers, in the cupboard he was constantly thrown into. Dean grows up with him, revels in his victories, but more often wants to console him in his defeats.

He keeps his hands in his pockets as they walk.

Because even though Cas is baring his soul to him, today just isn't the day.

When Castiel finishes his story, a bubble rises in Dean's throat and his eyes well up. He works hard to keep it all down, to keep his voice even as he takes a deep, shaking breath, and says, "Holy shit." He doesn't know what else to say, so he mimics Cas's comforting words as best he can. "Um. Thank you. For sharing that with me. That was... intense."

"Any time," Cas replies, staring off toward the cityscape across the river.

Dean hopes Castiel can read between the lines when he adds, "And I'm sorry that happened to you. No one deserves that." He hopes Cas knows that he understands his pain. He just _gets_ Cas, and he thinks Cas gets him. They get each other like no one else seems to.

Which is why, when Castiel gently places his hand on top of Dean's, Dean turns his palm up so that their fingers can intertwine, and then rests his cheek against Cas's head, which is leaning on his shoulder.

Dean has had enough shit in his life to be able to appreciate small moments for exactly what they are: seconds of blissful perfection that must all come to an end eventually, but are available to reach back into when he needs them most, on those lonely nights when he feels so far away from everyone and everything, like he's drowning, suffocating in the dark room he locks himself into because he's too damn afraid to see the light.

There's a spark, though, in the distance. In his heart.

A spark named Castiel.

When Dean reluctantly leaves Cas's side, he gives Cas a hug and they hold each other tight. Dean breathes in the beautiful scent of Castiel, who smells like sunshine and soap, and lets it surround him for a wonderful moment.

Dean departs with a promise that they'll text soon to come up with another time to meet.

***

Dean gets out of work late and barely makes it home and into his bedroom before crashing onto his bed. Sam, the narrow-sighted teenager who can't predict five minutes ahead of him, let alone a year from now when he'll be heading off to college, opted to go to Jess's.

He tries not to be disappointed. This is the kind of behavior he expects out of himself, or their dad, but not Sammy. Sam is better than this. He's better than John and Dean put together.

John is out doing whatever it is John does, and Dean can't bring himself to be concerned.

Dean is hungry and dirty and really has to study for his Behavioral Neuroscience final, but he can’t even manage to turn off the lights before completely passing out.

Hours later, his phone goes off in his pocket. It rings at least three times before Dean comes back to consciousness and reaches for it, half awake.

He opens one eye and presses Send before looking at who’s calling him.

“Hello?” Dean asks, voice deep with sleep.

“Dean,” replies a voice Dean barely recognizes, cracking with laughter.

No, Dean corrects, that’s sobbing. That’s definitely sobbing. Gross, agonized, fearful sobbing.

He pulls his phone away from his ear and reads the name _Castiel Krushnic_ on his phone.

“Cas?” Dean asks, bolting fully awake and sitting up. “Are you okay? What’s happening?”

“Dean, I can’t—“ a loud sob escapes him and he can’t finish his sentence. He gasps for breath between fractions of words.

“Cas, man, you gotta tell me where you are. I’ll come get you.” Dean’s heart is pounding in his chest. He's shaking. His brain is firing on all cylinders trying to figure out what to do and where to go.

Dean can make out the words “Second” and “Patterson” between choked sobs and strings of Russian and a lot of wind in the background. Thankfully, that’s all Dean needs.

“Okay, Cas, just hang tight. I’ll be there in five minutes.” He hangs up the phone, throws on his shoes, and is thankful that he passed out before taking off any of his clothes, because his keys and wallet are still in his pockets. He dashes out the front door and hops into the Impala, speeding off toward the city.

He makes it there in exactly five minutes, running every red light on Xenia Avenue without a traffic cam on it and with no cars in the vicinity, speeding into the parking lot of a bar called the Southern Belle.

Cas is sitting at a bench, bent over, face buried in his hands.

Dean gets out of the car, leaving it running and the door open, and runs over to Cas, kneeling next to him. “Cas?”

Cas doesn’t respond, just starts crying, and doesn’t lift his head from his hands. He falls onto Dean’s shoulder.

Dean wraps his arms around him and rubs circles on his back, shushing him, “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I’m here. You’re not alone. It’s gonna be okay.”

Dean can feel Cas nod into his neck and take several deep breaths, calming himself. He removes himself from Dean but still won’t look up.

“Want to come back to my place?" Dean asks. "I make a mean hot chocolate. I found the recipe in a cookbook dedicated to Star Wars. It’s called ‘Hoth Chocolate.’” Dean cards his fingers through Cas’s hair and still can’t see his face, but thinks he might be smiling.

His attempts at levity earn him a nod, and Dean stands, holding his hand out for Cas to take.

Cas takes it and stands, looking at Dean for the first time.

Under the light of a nearby streetlight, Dean is shocked at what he sees. He gasps, and his eyes go wide at the sight in front of him. Cas is covered in blood. His lip is split, and his cheek is cut and bruised.

A deep fury rolls within Dean, filling up every inch of him. He balls his hands into fists and says between clenched teeth, “Who did this to you?”

He knows the answer. He just needs confirmation from Castiel before finding Dick Roman and shoving a knife in his throat.

Cas just shakes his head, inching away from Dean.

Dean wills himself to let his anger go. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. Anger is what caused this and anger won’t help right now. His shoulders slump, and he reaches out to touch Cas, but thinks better of it, swallowing his rage. Trying to keep his voice light and even, he says, “C’mon. Let’s go have some Hoth Chocolate.”

The short drive to Dean’s house is silent. Dean ventures a glance to Cas at every red light, and looks in the rearview mirror to make sure they’re not being followed. Periodically, he hears Cas’s phone buzz in his pocket, until Cas eventually takes it out, rolls down the window, and chucks it out into the night.

Dean says nothing, and neither does Cas.

When they get to Dean’s house, Dean is relieved that John’s car still isn’t in the driveway. He leads Cas to the front door and unlocks it. The living room light is still on from when he forgot to turn it off hours ago.

Cas walks in front of him, looking around.

It's strange seeing Castiel in his house. It's like his two worlds have finally collided, but Dean isn't the one who got hurt in the explosion.

Ugly, nauseating, putrid guilt wells up in the pit of Dean's stomach. Somehow, he caused this. He knows he did.

Dean pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and gestures for Cas to sit. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

He rushes to the bathroom and pulls out a big container – a massive first aid kit is an absolute necessity in the Winchester household – then wets a hand towel and hurries back to Cas, who is sitting on the table itself instead of the chair, slouched over and legs dangling.

Under the harsh fluorescent light of the kitchen, Dean can see how severe Cas’s wounds really are.

He steps between Cas's legs, takes his chin in his hand, then gently wipes off the dried blood with the wet cloth. Cas looks at him with curiosity, following all of his movements, silent. When all the blood is gone, Dean realizes with a surge of relief that most of it wasn't Castiel's at all.

Then Dean notices Cas's hands, and takes them in his own, wiping the blood off with the cloth. Cas's knuckles are shredded, skin torn completely off of them.

"I'd hate to see the other guy," Dean says quietly, and smirks at Cas.

The edges of Cas's lips twitch up in response. 

"That's as good as it's gonna get right now." Dean sits down on the chair in front of Cas, tossing the hand towel on the table, and, leaning forward, pleads, “Cas, man, you gotta tell me what’s happening.”

Cas looks down at his hands, still shaking. “Dick isn’t my boyfriend,” he replies quietly.

“Voluntarily,” Dean completes. “That’s what you said earlier.”

“No, he’s my…” Cas mutters a word in Russian Dean doesn’t understand, and makes a vague hand gesture. “You have no word in English for it. The closest word is ‘owner.’”

“Owner,” Dean repeats.

Cas nods. “My family,” he begins, slowly, and buries his face in his hands, shaking his head.

Dean reaches up to grab his wrists and gently pull them away from his face. "Tell me." He holds Cas's hands in his own and gazes into his bright blue eyes, weary with exhaustion and pain. "Please."

"My whole family was murdered. Except for Anna and me. We were sixteen." Cas swallows, and stares far away, eyes focused on a past that Dean will never truly be able to understand, as much as he's going to try. "Anna and I were put into an orphanage. It was terrible. Anna was... horrible, horrible things happened to her there, Dean. I couldn't protect her, and I couldn't protect myself. The bullying of my childhood was paradise compared to what we endured there. So we left. I stole food for us. And money. Then I got caught and was thrown in a juvenile prison for six months until I turned eighteen. That was even worse than the orphanage, but the worst of it all was that Anna wasn't the same when I came back. She was broken. Shattered. She never slept. She barely ate. We couldn't get jobs, couldn't make ends meet. We wandered from town to town, trying to find work, shelter, anything, but everywhere we went, doors closed and people turned their heads. So I started... I started... Oh god, Dean, I just..." His eyes finally focus, and he meets Dean's gaze. With tears in his eyes and a lifetime of regrets behind them, he concludes, "I started selling myself."

Jaw clenched, face set into a stern line, Dean stays silent, willing himself to breathe.

After a long pause, Castiel adds quietly, "There's more to it, but in short, Dick Roman was the highest bidder." He huffs a laugh between the tears, sniffling, and smiles woefully. "And here I am."

There are so many questions to ask. So much more to know. Dean whittles it down to the first one. "Do you know who did it? Who killed your family?"

Cas takes a deep breath and stares down at Dean. "I can't tell you that. It would put your life in danger. Being here, knowing you at all puts your life in danger. I'm so sorry to drag you into this, Dean." His chin trembles and tears well up in his eyes, falling down his face. He shakes his head emphatically, and his voice breaks with a sob when he says, "I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so, so sorry."

Pulling his hands away from Dean, he buries his face again and sobs, body wracking with the force of them.

Dean swallows. He has no words to put to his thoughts. He cannot fully express to Cas the amount of sympathy and sadness and rage and fury and passion he feels in that moment, having seen Cas bare his soul to him, offering up the ugly truth to him for the second time that day.

It looks like today might be the right day after all.

“Cas…” he begins, and stands, sliding between Cas's knees. He hooks a hand under his chin and lifts it, searching those soulful blue eyes that have been at the back of his mind every minute of every day since they first met, now filled with tears and sadness and fear, tragedy and loss and grief, unspeakable pain that Dean can't even fathom.

Dean can’t handle it. He’s speechless, and his body is itching to do something, _anything_ to relieve the tension he feels in the wake of this horrific knowledge.

He takes Cas’s face in his hand, rubbing his thumb across his un-bruised cheekbone, and stares deep into Cas's eyes, trying to take any amount of pain away from them and onto himself. He knows he can't fix Castiel's problems, he can't put out the fires that have been burning in Cas for so many years, but he wants to help Cas carry this burden, take some of the weight off of his shoulders, provide him an ounce of relief in the endless torture of his life.

He wants to stand in the fire with Cas. He doesn't care if it burns him. He doesn't care if it destroys him.

The only thing Dean cares about in the entire world at this very moment is Castiel.

Dean flicks his eyes down to Cas's lips, and leans in slowly, hesitating inches from Cas's face, searching his eyes. "May I?" he whispers.

Cas nods once, eyes wide and lips parted.

Dean closes the gap between them and, finally, blissfully, beautifully meets Cas's lips with own.

Castiel's breath hitches, and he hesitates before kissing back, opening his mouth slowly and inviting Dean in.

Dean deepens the kiss, cupping Cas's face in his hands and pressing their bodies together as close as he can, because he can't get enough of Cas. He will never have enough of Cas.

Cas slides his hands up the back of Dean's shirt and takes his bottom lip into his mouth, sucking on it gently. Dean lets out a moan. This is everything Dean has wanted for what feels like centuries, opening his body and mind and soul up to the life he’s always been too afraid to dream of actually having.

Cas’s past and present are tragic, but if they can have this moment, everything will be okay. Everything has to be okay.

Dean reluctantly pulls away, and rests his forehead on Cas’s, breathless. “I need to tell you something."

Castiel moves to nuzzle into the crook of Dean's shoulder, trailing lazy kisses up and down Dean's neck. "Anything," he says between kisses, muffled, voice wrecked and deeper than Dean has ever heard it. "Tell me everything. I want to know everything."

Dean threads his hands in Cas's hair. "I'm..." he begins. When Cas nips at Dean's neck, Dean gasps and bites his bottom lip. His eyes flutter shut, and he wills his mind to focus on his words, the words he needs to say, even if they're obvious, because he's never said them out loud, has never heard them uttered with his own voice. "Cas, I'm gay."

With those words, the weight of the whole world has completely dissipated from atop his shoulders. The relief is so intense, his knees are weak.

Cas gasps, and pulls himself away from Dean abruptly, wide eyed. " _No."_

Dean laughs, lightheaded and giddy. "Oh, shut up."

"I'm sorry, Dean. We can't do this." Cas shakes his head and looks at Dean, smiling through the pain and the tragedy. With a shrug, he says, "I'm straight."

They both break out into a fit of giggles, easing the tension, reveling in this moment and their ability to create a bubble of happiness and relief with them wherever they are, no matter what horrible chaos is whirling around them.

They can both smile through the pain and the tragedy, so long as they have each other.

Still laughing, Cas bunches Dean's shirt up in his fists and drags him down for another kiss.

The grin on Dean's face fades as Cas licks across Dean's lower lip, and Dean growls, pressing himself closer to Cas. 

Cas kisses like he’s about to die. Like every scrape of stubble, every ragged breath, every nip and lick and moan will be his last. He presses himself against Dean and runs his hands up Dean’s back, grabbing and clawing at every inch of Dean he can reach.

It's frantic. It's desperate. It's fast and hot and deep, and suddenly Dean is moaning into Cas's mouth, panting and biting and squeezing his eyes shut. His heart is so full he thinks it might burst, and there's not enough air in the room. He can't breathe. He's drowning in Cas. His mind is spinning, unraveling, as he holds on for dear life to this Russian storm of a man who burst into his world and set his heart and soul aflame.

The depth and darkness of the situation kills Dean. The kiss slows, becoming languid, and Dean treasures it just in case it really is their last. A surge of emotion suddenly rises in his throat and he can feel tears fall down his cheeks as he clutches Castiel to him, terrified that Dick is going to kill him before Dean gets to express… whatever this feeling welling up in Dean actually is. Maybe it’s love. Maybe at some point between a flamboyant, blue-eyed Russian pestering him to go to a luau and now, Dean fell in love with Cas. Maybe he’s falling in love with Cas right now, broken and huddled against him, bleeding and scared. Maybe he’s always been in love with Cas, from the moment he was born, and the only missing piece of the puzzle was the feel of Castiel’s lips against his own.

Dean pulls away again and smiles, wiping the tears from his face with the back of his hand. “You wanna come to my room?”

Cas tries to smile back at him, chin trembling, and nods. “Yeah.”

They're scared. Scared of Dick Roman. Scared of John Winchester. They're scared for each other. They're scared of the world which tries its damnedest to destroy them.

Dean knows that tomorrow will come with a shit storm of problems. Dean knows that Cas has to go back to Dick. Dean knows that nothing with his father is resolved and he's pretty sure that's never going to change.

None of it matters, though, because tonight, together, they've created a home in their embrace, and nothing can hurt them. Within this space, within this moment, they are free.


	11. Chapter 5: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ultra super mega emphasis on trigger warnings in this chapter, again because some of it is based on real situations. Just... all of the trigger warnings. All of them. 
> 
> When Cas is at Second and Patterson and calls Dean, that's where my sister was when she called me after being run over by a car. You can read about that situation in a legit non-abstract memoir [ here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B3Mt7xih02i1MHVNOGRNbEFIUDA/edit?usp=sharing) if you would like. Trigger warning in that doc for some gruesome depictions of death. (PS My sister is just fine.)

When Dean hugs him, Cas cannot help but breathe him in, the scent of summertime and fresh laundry, and it ends all too quickly.

Castiel watches Dean drive off toward the shop before getting into his own car and sighing, then heading to the library to study.

When Cas looks up from his chemistry textbook hours later, it's getting dark, and he remembers that Dick commanded that he be home early that night so they could have dinner together.

Cas gathers his belongings and reluctantly heads back to the penthouse. When he opens the door, he expects to hear Tchaikovksy blasting on the surround-sound and smell a roast in the oven or pasta carbonara or whatever Dick happens to be throwing together for dinner that night.

Instead, the room is dark and silent.

Castiel walks into the foyer and sets down his book bag, closing the door behind him. He stands still, listening for movement, but hears none. "Dick?"

Dick Roman is more predictable than taxes, so when Dick tells Cas that dinner will be at 8PM the next evening, it means that at exactly 8PM, they will be sitting in front of their plates to dine.

Cas checks his watch. It's 7:58.

"Good evening, Castiel," Dick says from the darkened living room.

"Dick?" Cas asks. "Why are you sitting in the dark? I thought we were having dinner tonight."

Castiel's body, conditioned over the years to sense danger and situations wherein he will likely be physically hurt, begins trembling against his will.

Dick laughs, low and deep, then stands from his place on the couch and turns on a dim light overhead, which casts dark, ugly shadows across his face.

His eyes are puffy and red, and there's a sneer on his face.

The only thing worse than Dick Roman is Dick Roman when he's emotional, so Cas forces a smile on his face, and says, "Well if we're not having dinner tonight, I think I'll just head to my room to study. I have my O Chem final tomorrow."

Getting to Castiel's room involves walking directly in front of Dick. Swallowing, Cas grabs up his book bag and walks casually to his room.

When he crosses in front of Dick, he grabs Cas by the arm. "I found out some interesting information today, Castiel."

 _Castiel_. The only time Dick calls him Castiel is when he's angry. And now he's used it twice, which means whatever the problem is, it's _bad_.

"Oh? That's good. I did too. Did you know that the instrument they used to perform lobotomies was called a leucotome? It was really just an ice pick–"

"About you. I found out some interesting information about you," Dick interrupts through gritted teeth.

Cas continues rambling in a vain effort to diffuse the situation. "You know, there are a lot of interesting things about me. I pinched a nerve in my back when I was young and now every year, on the day of the first snow fall, it hurts again. Just for one day. It's the craziest thing–"

" _SHUT. UP._ " Dick shoves Cas against the wall, and Cas's book bag falls from his shoulder and tumbles to the ground.

Cas keeps smiling as he stares at Dick, now inches from his face, who is staring furiously back at him. Castiel resorts to rambling lighthearted flattery. "I've always really liked your eyes, Dick. They're brown, which is common, but there are these flecks of gold in them that make them shine in the sun so that they're closer to hazel. They match your dark red ties the best, I think, and they would probably look good with brown suits, but brown as a suit color hasn't really been in style since the nineties, so I understand why you don't wear them, but the second they come back in fashion, you should really invest in some brown suits."

Dick shuts Cas up by kissing him, forceful and angry.

Castiel grimaces through the kiss and doesn't return the sentiment, bile rising in his throat. He turns his head away so that his cheek is pressed against the wall.

Dick lets go of him and backs up. Taking his phone from his pocket, he pulls up a picture and puts it in front of Cas. ”This, Cas. This is what I found out."

It's a picture of Dean and Cas, sitting on a park bench holding hands while Cas rests his head on Dean's shoulder. Were it not for the present circumstance in which he is being shown this, he would think that it's really a very nice picture of them.

Instead, it just shatters him. He can't hold up his smile anymore. "Did you follow me?"

"Cas, honey," Dick begins with pity. "You know I don't have time to do my own dirty work."

He knows Dick won't answer, but he asks anyway, "How long have I been followed? Who's following me?"

Dick just makes a _tsk_ noise and replies, "If I answered that, you would be very upset with me. And I like making you happy, Cas."

Cas stares at him incredulously. "Since when?"

Dick takes a step back and puts his hand over his heart, looking hurt. "Ouch." Stepping closer again, he puts both hands on the wall behind either side of Cas's head and stares down at him. "See, sweetie, I want to be good to you. I want to be a good boyfriend to you. A good fiancée. But you make it so _difficult_ for me. You go around doing things and saying things that hurt..." Dick lowers one of his hands and socks Cas in the gut.

Cas bends forward with the force of the punch and makes an _mmmph_ noise.

"...my _feelings_ , Cas." Dick wraps his hand around Cas's neck and speaks close to his face. "See, sweetheart, when I buy a car, that car doesn't drive off by itself to be driven by someone else. When I buy an apple, it doesn't roll away to be eaten by someone else. So when my whore, whom I treat so much _nicer_..." He removes his hand from Cas's neck and punches him in the gut again.

Cas groans and covers his abdomen, trying to catch his breath.

"...than _all_ my other possessions combined because it's my most _prized_..." He raises his hand and brings it down, slapping Cas across the face.

Cas's lower lip splits open and spatters blood on his cheek, and his head knocks back against the wall with the force of the slap.

"...and that possession, that sex toy, goes off to _fuck_ someone else, I get very, very..." He brings his arm back across Cas's face the other direction, back-handing him. The ring he's wearing cuts across Cas's cheek.

Cas shakes his head to stop the ringing in his ears. His face throbs with the impact.

"... _upset._ "

Having been physically beaten more days of his life than not, Castiel's mind shuts down.

Dick leans in, licks a stripe up Cas's neck, and whispers, "You're mine, Castiel. You always will be. You're just my wild Russian and I'm going to tame you tonight, Cas. I'm going to prove to you that you..." He unbuckles his belt. "...are..." Then he unbuttons and unzips his pants, and pulls his dick out, half-hard, "... _mine_."

In one last ditch effort to get out of this situation, Cas bargains, "If you want me to go to medical school so badly, I really need to go study for my O-Chem final, Dick. I can't get into a med program if I don't pass this final–"

Castiel has spent most of his life fighting his instincts. He can control his fight or flight responses. He can control his fear. He can control his perception of physical pain.

So when Dick interrupts him by shoving two fingers down Cas's throat, Cas doesn't choke, or gag, or even move. He becomes complacent, compliant. When he can't flee a situation, and fighting would result in something terrible happening to Anna, his only option is to give up.

Dick takes his fingers out of Cas's mouth and uses his saliva-coated hands to jerk himself. Then he grabs Cas's hand and wraps it around his cock. "That's right, beautiful, give it to me." While forcing himself into Cas's fist, he laughs and says, breathless, "I think it's so funny how you haven't put the pieces together yet, Cas. You haven't asked any questions. You always just lay there and take it. It's so fucking _pathetic_."

Cas, briefly, comes back to himself and he furrows his brow, attempting to pull his arm away from Dick. "What are you talking about? Put what pieces–"

Dick shoves his fingers down Cas's throat again and laughs. "You think it's a coincidence we met? That I found you, huddled in the cold with your whore sister? Have you never wondered why you went from destitute poverty to living in a fucking mansion, Cas? Have you never wondered why your entire family was _assassinated_?"

Wide-eyed, Cas shakes his head. _Assassinated_...

Dick removes his fingers again and strokes himself, resting his forehead on Cas's chest and moaning. "My name isn't Dick Roman, Cas. It's Rostik Romanov. My father is–"

 _Romanov_...

Cas blinks. "Boris Rom–"

Dick shoves three fingers into Cas's mouth and whispers, "That's right, Cas. Boris Romanov."

Boris Romanov is the Russian equivalent of the Boogie Man. He's the monster in the stories parents tell their children so that they'll be good. _Go to sleep, or Boris Romanov will find you_. He's so infamous, so notorious, that Cas didn't think he was real. He's said to be the head, the absolute top, of the Russian mafia. Cas's father once told him that Boris Romanov had a hit put on him, so he was shot in the heart three times and the head once. But he didn't die. So they gave him cement shoes and threw him into the Caspian Sea. Two months later, Boris found the men who tried to kill him and tortured them until they listed every person in their lives that they loved, that had granted them any kindness. He didn't kill them, though. He went out and found everyone on that list, and he killed those people in front of them. Killed women and children and the elderly. Slaughtered them all mercilessly. Then he let the men go, just so they could live the rest of their lives in complete solitude and tell everyone who came upon them the name of Boris Romanov.

"Drugs, Cas. Prescription ones," Dick says as he takes Cas by the shoulder and spins him around. He pushes Cas against the wall so that his chest is pressed against it, and Dick ruts against his ass. "America has them. Russia needs them. It's supply and demand. Your father helped us to supply them to our enormous demand, then he didn't make good on supplying us what we demanded, which was payment for our supplies."

The war in Cas's mind makes it difficult for him to concentrate. His heart is pounding in his chest as he furiously tries to put all of the pieces together.

Dick pulls Cas's hands behind his back and pins them there. Cas's face is pressed against the wall.

This is why Dick is forcing him to go to medical school. He's going to force Cas to marry him to become an American citizen and join what now appears to be the American branch of the Russian mafia.

If Cas lives through this night, that is, which doesn't appear to be likely.

"You failed, Cas. Just like your father, you failed us," Dick begins, grinding onto him. "You betrayed me, Cas. You betrayed the man who pulled you out of poverty, clothed you, fed you, gave you everything. And now I have no choice but to put you down, just like a dog. I had a dog once, Cas. Did you know that? I loved him, I treated him so nicely, like I treat you. And one day he bit me. I still have the scar on my leg. And you know what happens to dogs who bite the hands that feed them, Cas? You put them down. 

"This is so much worse than biting, though, Cas. Your lack of gratitude hurts so much worse, so your punishment has to be so much worse. So I'm going to fuck you. I'm going to ride you dry until you scream. Then I'm going to kill you. Then I'm going to go out and find your pathetic little crush, and I'm going to kill him too. I'm going to kill his family. I'm going to kill his friends." He leans near Cas's ear and whispers, "And as soon as I find Anna, I'm not going to kill her. I'm going to make her wish she was dead."

 _As soon as I find Anna_.

The corners of Cas's lips twitch up.

The mafia doesn't have Anna. Anna is missing. There's no call to be made to some goon on the other side of the planet who is watching her every minute of every day so that Cas will remain compliant.

It's the best news Cas has ever heard.

"Hey, Dick?" Cas asks, coming completely back to himself.

"Yeah, babe?" Dick lets go of Cas's hands and reaches around to undo Cas's pants.

"Go _fuck_ yourself."

"Wh–" is all Dick can get out before Castiel slams his elbow backward into Dick's face. He can feel his nose shatter with the impact.

Dick reels backward, clutching his nose. "What the _FUCK_ , Cas?"

Castiel spins around and grabs him by the throat, then throws him against the wall.

Dick's head bounces off of it and he blinks, dazed.

Raising his fist, Castiel spits in Dick's face, "Do you want to see..." He slams his fist across Dick's jaw. "...a _wild_..." He raises his fist again and brings it down with such force that he can feel the crunch of Dick's cheekbone under his fist. "... _FUCKING_..." Cas pulls him forward by his throat, then slams him backward against the wall. "... _RUSSIAN?_ " He cracks his fist across Dick's jaw one last time, and Dick’s eyes roll up into the back of his head. His body goes limp but Cas holds him there, by the neck, until he regains consciousness.

Castiel's fight response wins over. He has lost complete control of himself.

Dick, conscious again but barely, laughs, and slurs, "You're so sexy when you're mad."

With all of his strength, Cas brings up the knee that's between Dick's legs.

Dick bends over with the force of the impact and gags on the pain.

Cas shoves him against the wall again, pinning him. "You won't find Anna. And you won't lay a finger on Dean Winchester or anyone he loves." He leans forward, and whispers, _"А еслипопробовать, я собираюсьсделатьвыхотите, чтотымертв."_

_And if you try, I'm going to make you wish you were dead._

Before Dick can respond, Cas pulls him forward again by the throat and slams his head back against it so hard, the drywall cracks behind him, and he loses consciousness.

Cas lets go of him, and he slumps down the wall, a trail of blood streaking down behind his head.

"You can't kill me, Dick." Looking down at him, Castiel grabs his book bag from where it had fallen off of his shoulder, and adds, "I'm already dead."

***

Cas leaves the penthouse, thankful no one is in the lobby to see him go. He doesn't take his car, he just gets to the sidewalk outside and looks around. Not a soul in sight.

Paranoid someone is following him, he tips his hat down over his face and hunches his shoulders, turning onto Second Street.

Periodically, he looks up to see if anyone is following him. The streets are empty. There's no one out driving. All he can hear is the train in the distance.

Castiel has spent his whole life not fighting back. When he was bullied as a child, he was too afraid to fight back. And even if he were brave enough, he didn't know how.

When he's with Dick, he can't fight back because he knows that Anna, on the other side of the world, is connected to every action he makes. So Castiel is a good pet. He doesn't ruffle feathers. He blanks out and lets Dick do whatever he wants to him, because Cas can't be hurt.

Dick can't break what's already broken.

The only time Cas ever fought back was when he was in prison. When he first arrived there, he was raped, and beaten, and tortured by both his cellmates and the guards. There were several times he almost died.

About two months into his stay, he realized that he had no fear anymore.

No one in prison had any connections to Anna. No one in prison could ever really, truly _hurt_ Castiel.

Not more than they already had, at least.

The last time Cas was beaten to a bloody pulp, he started laughing. He laughed loudly, maniacally, because he had finally come to the conclusion that there was nothing left in him.

So he stood, and he faced his attacker, a large man everyone referred to as Lucifer because he was the devil incarnate. Lucifer, like Cas, was almost eighteen, but, unlike Cas, he wasn't going to get out of prison. He was only getting transferred to a real one.

Cas lifted his right arm with his left one, limp at his side from being pulled out of its socket, and shoved it back into place. He could only see out of one of his eyes, the other swollen completely shut, but it was enough. He had swallowed so much blood that his stomach hurt, and he knew at least two of his ribs had been cracked.

He grinned at Lucifer, blood coating his teeth and lips, and he laughed. He laughed until his stomach hurt so much, he thought he would faint.

For the first time in his life, Castiel was genuinely, completely _happy_.

Cas's bloody, manic grin was the last sight Lucifer ever saw, because Cas grabbed him by the head, and shoved his thumbs into his eyes so deep his eyeballs gushed out of his skull.

Cas kept laughing as Lucifer fell to his knees and screamed.

After that, Castiel got into a few more scrapes here and there, but he was soon known as the man who wouldn't just fight back, he would _destroy_ anyone who laid a finger on him. He would ruin people from the inside out, from the outside in, make it so that even if they made it out of prison, they would still have nightmares about Castiel Krushnic. He broke kneecaps, he cut off fingers, he debilitated his foes.

He had a lifetime supply of pain, and he was happy to hand it out to the people who deserved it most.

Cas reaches the corner of Second and Patterson and slumps down on a bench in front of the Southern Belle.

With his adrenaline abating, panic sets in. Everything Dick told him about his family, about the mafia, seeps into his skin, and he shakes his head in utter disbelief.

His father, the carpenter, the man who helped every neighbor, who could talk about different types of wood finishing for hours on end, who ate less food than the rest of the family so that they could eat more, was a drug dealer. A peddler. A lowly servant to Boris Romanov.

He can no longer believe his own life.

Castiel is a pre-med student, gender studies major, President of the LGBTQA Alliance, human trafficking victim, whore, orphan, ex-con, and proud gay man. And now his fiancée, who also _owns him as property_ and is holding as blackmail the life of the only person on the fucking planet that Castiel loves, is the son of the head of the Russian mafia, and the man who most likely hired the people who killed his entire family.

To top it all off, Dean Winchester– the only friend Cas is completely sure he has, the only person to have ever shown him pure, selfless kindness since coming to America– is now in a shitload of danger.

Cas swallows, and it all hits him like a ton of bricks. He can't breathe. He can't think. His mind is spiraling out of control as he pulls his phone out of his pocket with shaking fingers and calls Dean's number. He has to warn him. Has to tell him to get out of town, to take his brother and father and Bobby with him. He has to leave, and never look back.

The phone rings. And rings. And rings.

They got him, Cas thinks. They already have him, and they're torturing him, and they're going to send Cas pictures of his broken body, and the bodies of his family and friends.

"Hello?" Dean asks.

Castiel is so relieved, tears stream down his face and he can't control the sobs that escape him. "Dean."

"Cas? Are you okay? What's happening?" Dean asks, voice filled with concern.

"Dean, I can't–" It's too much for Cas to handle. For the first time in so long, Castiel is truly afraid. Now that he knows what he's up against– the entire fucking _mafia_ – there's no way he's getting out of this. "They're too powerful, Dean. I can't stop them. They'll get you. They'll get me. They'll get Anna. They'll get us all. We don't know the meaning of pain yet, Dean. We can't even fathom what they'll do to us." Cas babbles, voice breaking, sobbing, half in Russian, half in English. He can't control the words tumbling out of his mouth. He doesn't know what he's saying.

“Cas, man, you gotta tell me where you are. I’ll come get you."

"No," Cas replies, frantic. "You have to leave. I'm at Second and Patterson, and you need to go the opposite direction. Take your family. I'll give you all the money I have but for godsakes, _get out of here_."

Castiel wails into the phone, rocking back and forth, clutching his bruised stomach as saline burns the cuts on his face from Dick's beating.

“Okay, Cas, just hang tight. I’ll be there in five minutes," Dean replies, and hangs up.

"NO! _"_ Cas shouts into the dead line.

He hangs up the phone and clutches himself, sobbing harder as he realizes how utterly, truly, horrifically _fucked_ everything has become.

***

Cas is so spaced out when Dean arrives, he thinks he died and went to heaven when he sees Dean's beautiful face blinking up at him from his knelt position, eyebrows knit in concern. "Cas?"

The only reason Cas knows he's still alive is because he could never make it into heaven in the first place.

Castiel falls onto his shoulder, sobbing, unable to control himself for the millionth time that evening. He keeps making stupid decisions, keeps tying this knot he's made of his life tighter and tighter until the only thing that he can do is cut the cord completely.

Dean says some consoling words and rubs his back, shushing him. He makes a Star Wars reference in regards to hot chocolate that Castiel doesn't understand, but it warms his heart to remember that there's happiness in the world, even if there's none in his own life.

When Dean holds out his hand to help Cas up, Cas takes it, and when Dean sees him, he gasps.

Castiel's face must look worse than he thought.

When Dean gets angry, and asks, "Who did this to you?" Cas shrinks away from him, shrinks away from the fists balled up at his sides, shrinks away from his eyes which have become set into an expression of pure wrath.

There is no happy medium with Castiel. He is always either the victim or the assailant. He is either beaten or he destroys. Passive or active. There is no in between.

Cas shrinks away because when he is met with aggression, he either feels pain or causes it. So when Dean displays aggression, Castiel shrinks away from both Dean and his own violent instincts.

Thankfully, Dean's face softens when he sees this. “C’mon. Let’s go have some Hoth Chocolate.”

***

The texts begin as soon as Cas gets into the car. He can't bring himself to care, so after about a dozen text messages, he rolls down the window and chucks his phone into the night.

Nothing anyone communicates to him via text at this moment could possibly help this situation.

When they reach Dean's house and enter, Castiel is met with a warmth he hasn't felt since he was last in the home in which he grew up, the one with the kitchen floor he liked to slide around on, the one with the small bedroom he had to share with two brothers so much bigger than him, the one where his family was still alive and where their only problem was that sometimes they could only afford to eat tomatoes and rice for days on end.

Cas sits on a small dining table while Dean gets a first aid kit.

Looking around in wonder, he sees all the nooks and crannies that go into a real home. Pictures on the wall, a thick layer of dust on the 32" CRT television, newspapers on the coffee table under empty cups and plates, stacks of DVDs and VHS tapes strewn haphazardly in a shelving unit, dirty dishes next to the sink in the small kitchen.

Above the couch is an enormous shelf, completely covered in baseball trophies.

The house smells like Dean, that indescribable scent of someone else's home which follows every person around, lingering, everywhere they go.

In Russia, Cas's home smelled like cedar wood and fresh baked bread.

He misses his home. He misses the life he had before he told Afanasy Bugayev that he loved him. He misses simplicity.

Dean returns with a large bin of first aid supplies and a wet towel. He leans into Cas, tending to the wounds on his face, and Cas stares at everything he does. He's so unused to being taken care of that it feels odd, yet familiar.

He remembers when he would get beat up at school, and Anna would drag him into the women's restroom and clean him up before they went home, so that their mother wouldn't fret. He remembers years later, when Cas would come back to Anna in the cold dawn after long nights of selling his body, that Anna would hold him, and comb her fingers through his hair, rocking him and singing him lullabies taught to them by their mother. She would whisper stories to him as he fell asleep, and he would sleep through the whole morning. When he awoke, she would have bread for him sometimes, or whatever she managed to find for them to eat with the pittance he made from the night prior. Every evening she would thank him, and apologize, and cry, and then he would hold her as she fell asleep to fitful nightmares of demons from which he had been unable to protect her, and he would take his turn telling  stories, until he would leave again for a night of walking the sad streets of their little Russian village.

When Dean moves to clean off Cas's hands, Cas notices for the first time that his knuckles are torn and bloody. He hasn't seen them in such a state since prison, and he's surprised to be hit with a wave of nostalgia at the sight.

"I'd hate to see the other guy," Dean says quietly, and smirks at Cas.

 _You really would_ , Cas thinks as he stares at the thumbs that crushed the eyes of Lucifer.

Dean sets down the towel and sits in the chair directly in front of Cas. His eyes are filled with curiosity and sympathy and something else that Cas can't quite put his finger on. “Cas, man, you gotta tell me what’s happening.”

Reluctantly, Cas finally tells him that Dick is his _владелец_ , and about his life up to this point. He skips the gory details, and when Dean asks him who killed his family, he realizes he can't tell Dean. He can't tell Dean the legends of Boris Romanov, or that one of the most powerful men in the world may soon become his father-in-law.

If Dick doesn't kill him, that is.

Dick will probably kill Cas, but Cas doesn't much care about that. Castiel's main concern is that Dick may also kill Dean in the process. He can't live with that thought, and when it hits him that it is a very real possibility that tonight might be their last night alive, Cas breaks down and, sobbing, tells Dean, "I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so, so sorry."

Dean stands, and lifts Cas's chin so that their eyes meet. There is nothing in them but openness and forgiveness. He leans in and asks, voice low and innocent, "May I?"

Cas, stunned, unable to understand the amount of compassion he's being shown, nods, and Dean leans in the rest of the way, kissing him gently.

Castiel's heart thuds against his chest as he realizes that this is really happening. Dean Winchester is kissing him. Dean Winchester, the sweetest escape and distraction from the hell of his life, is kissing him.

This is an infinite number of points for gay. Gay wins. Gay really, really wins.

Castiel kisses back, for the first time in his life without being forced into it, or coerced, or paid at the end of the transaction.

This isn't a transaction at all. This is purity, innocence, wholeness. Two people who wish to show genuine affection toward each other in the form of sweet kisses and moans, the clash of tongues and the clawing of hands and the pressing of bodies against one another in an act that Castiel, until this very moment, has never truly understood.

Dean pulls away from Cas reluctantly and says, voice quiet, "I need to tell you something."

This is it, Cas thinks. This is the part where he says, " _No homo_ ," and backs off, apologizing for leading Cas on.

This is the part where Dean gets off the swing and shoves Cas for showing him his love.

"I'm gay."

_Really, Dean? Really?_

Cas understands the possibility of backing out of being gay after a kiss. But to _confirm the fucking obvious_ is hilarious. He can't help but tease Dean about it.

" _No_ ," Cas says, aghast.

This is all too good to be true. This kind of thing does not happen after a night of finding out that Cas is two inches away from being assassinated, and that his family was murdered by the Russian mafia, and that he has a direct connection to Boris fucking Romanov.

And now he knows that Dean fucking Winchester is gay, and that he has the same feelings for Cas as Cas has for him, and it doesn't even fucking matter that the mafia is on their asses because suddenly they're laughing together in delight and adoring affection for one another. They are safe in each other's presence, and they are strong.

They are stronger than Boris Romanov, Rostik Romanov, and the Russian mafia. They are stronger than John Winchester and Dean's fear of coming out. They are stronger than whatever the world could possibly throw at them.

They can get through this. They can get through the pain and the tragedy of it all. They can get through anything, so long as they have each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I'll be unable to post tomorrow, so I welcome you to let out your feels in the form of comments on this chapter in the interim. <3


	12. Chapter 6: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a tough one. 
> 
> Oh, while I'm thinking about it, I love all the feedback I've been getting. Your comments make me just... stupid happy. However! I am really bad about replying, and for that I'm sorry, so I just want to say that I appreciate you all so much and if you ever do have something you specifically want me to respond to, my [ask box on tumblr](http://bettydays.tumblr.com/ask) is always open, even for anons. So if you want to tell me in complete confidence that you think I totally suck, you have that option available to you.
> 
> Biggest thanks as always to my beta extraordinaire, [Michaela Grey.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela)

Dean has never brought anyone home before. It's such a teen drama concept that he isn't sure how he should react, especially when Cas looks around the bedroom with a crooked grin on his face.

His bedroom really isn't that special. It's blue. It has a bed. There are clothes on the floor. End of discussion.

But Cas looks at it like he's in the fucking White House.

"Do you want to..." Dean scratches the back of his neck, not sure what he's really asking, "...go to sleep, I guess? You can have my bed. I don't mind sleeping on the couch."

Cas looks at Dean, still smiling. "I would love to take your bed, but I'd much rather you sleep in it with me." He smirks, adding, "If you'd like."

As a response, Dean steps in Cas's space and places his hand on Cas's cheek, pulling him in for another kiss.

This kiss has intent, and Dean can feel the fire in Cas, all the way down to his bones, that manic intensity that draws everyone to him like a magnet. He wants to give that ferocity back, but he's keeping himself roped in, treading carefully. This is all too new, too fragile.

As Cas moves from Dean's lips to his neck, he ravages it with small bites and kisses. Grabbing the hem of Dean's t-shirt, Cas lifts it up and tears it off of him. He pulls away, blinking at Dean's chest, and growls a word in Russian.

Dean is painfully hard already, and the Russian-speaking only makes it worse, which Dean can tell Cas notices because his eyes flick down to the bulge in Dean's jeans and then back up to his eyes.

He grins, devious, and maneuvers Dean by his hips, kissing his chest, until the back of Dean's knees hit his bed, and Cas pushes him down on top of it to straddle him at the waist.

Cas pulls his suspenders off his shoulders while Dean unbuttons his dress shirt with deft fingers and – _dear god_ – there's that perfectly chiseled chest which Dean hasn't seen since the luau but has dreamed about every day since. He pulls Cas back down to him and they're kissing again, frantic and hot, groaning in each other's mouths as Cas tears his shirt the rest of the way off. Finally there's skin touching skin and fingers exploring lines of muscle and bone. Dean can feel how hard Cas is as he grinds onto Dean's hip and smothers his neck and chest with kisses and ragged breaths.

When Cas climbs back up to pull Dean's lower lip into his mouth, Dean runs his hands up Cas's back and sits up to twist Cas back down on his side next to him. They're facing each other on the bed, and Dean puts his leg between Cas's while Cas slides his leg up Dean's side, wrapping it around his hip so that every inch of their bodies that can possibly be touching is flush against each other.

The problem is that there are still two too many pairs of pants being worn, but when Dean realizes that, when he thinks about where this is headed and how it got started, he musters together every ounce of his willpower and breaks away from Cas, breathless and trembling with want.

They stare at each other, Cas's eyes blown wide, darkened with lust, and Dean can see the deep, intense power in him, which is so often hidden by a mask of innocent charm.

It's one part terrifying and two parts hot as _fuck_.

 "Cas..." Dean begins at the same time Cas says, "Dean..."

They both hesitate, and at the same time again, say, "I can't..." followed by, "I've never..."

"You go first," Dean says.

"I don't think we should do this right now, Dean," Cas replies, remorseful.

Dean smiles, relieved, but still maintains focus on willing his body to cool off. "Yeah, I... I kind of agree. I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, Cas. I want you. I mean I really, _really_ want you. But I want more than your body." He lifts his head up to kiss Cas's forehead, then ducks down and kisses above Cas's heart. "We'll wait," he assures while reaching up and carding his hand through Cas's hair, then pulling him in for a slow, deep kiss.

Dean can feel Cas's chin tremble against his own, feel his lips dip into a frown, and pulls away, eyebrows knit in concern. "What's wrong?"

"It's just..." Cas takes a deep breath and looks away, voice shaking when he says, "You're so good, Dean. You're so good to me. You're good to your family. You're just... _good_. And I wish I could be in a place in my life where I could return that to you. You deserve that. You deserve someone whose life isn't..." He pauses, and looks again at Dean, eyes glistening with tears. "Mine."

"Cas..." Dean begins, breathing the word out like it's air itself. He runs his hands through Cas's hair again and looks deep into his eyes which hide an entire world of secrets that barely hold a candle to Dean's. "I don't know all the details yet, and I don't know what we're up against, but you're brave, and you're strong, and you're gonna get out of this situation. _We_..." he gestures between them, "are gonna get you out of this." Then he kisses Cas again, because he just can't stop.

Castiel eventually pulls away and nuzzles his head under Dean's chin while Dean wraps his arms around him. He can feel Cas's eyelashes brush against his chest.

"So what really happened tonight, Cas?" Dean asks.

Cas sighs. "I don't know if you really want to know that."

"Try me."

So Cas, reluctantly at first, tells Dean about finding Dick sitting in the dark when they should have been having dinner, all the way to the moment when Cas, from what it sounds like, beat the ever-loving shit out of Dick Roman.

He doesn't brag. He's doesn't celebrate the violence. He doesn't go into detail about the damage he caused, or the damage he took, though Dean can see both plain as day. Cas must have done a number on Dick to get knuckles as fucked up as they are, to get that kind of spattering of blood, which definitely was not his, across his face.

Dean wonders about the man he's holding in his arms, if maybe there's a darkness to this excitable, witty Russian boy who can recount stories of epic tragedies so matter-of-fact, it's as though they happened to someone else.

"I'm sorry," Dean says quietly when Cas finishes his story.

They're silent for a long time, and Dean thinks Cas has fallen asleep, when Cas asks, "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

Of all the things Dean thinks are about to come out of Cas's mouth, it's not this: "Why psychology?"

Dean shrugs. Surprisingly, he doesn't get asked that question a lot. "Because the brain is the most complex engine there is." He swallows, hesitating, and finally admits to Secret #97. "And I want to figure out why my mom killed herself."

Cas squeezes Dean tighter, and Dean realizes that the last person who held him was his mother when he was four years old.

"Have you figured it out?" Cas asks.

"No," Dean replies. "Closest I can figure is post-partum, which would explain why Dad has never given a shit about Sam or anything he does. Blames him, maybe. For Mom's death." He shrugs again, a gesture which he hopes relays the caveat of, " _But it's still all Dad's fault."_

Dean remembers when Sammy would come home with crayon drawings of their family. Later, he'd bring home good report cards. Then, academic awards. John never gave him anything more than a, " _Good job, Sammy. Keep it up. But my show is about to come back on so go find something to do,"_ and Dean would have to swoop in and give Sam a hug, then hang his art and report cards and awards on the fridge. Dean would pester his father for money until John would throw a few bucks at them and Dean would take Sam out for ice cream.

Cas presses a kiss to Dean's cheek, and Dean turns to face him and kiss him again, just because he can, and he wants to, and he loves it.

Shortly after, they fall asleep curled up together.

***

In the early hours of the morning, Dean hears his bedroom door open in the far off distance of the waking world.

Dean abruptly comes back to full, unfortunate consciousness when John Winchester yells, "What the _FUCK_ is going on here?!"

Dean and Cas sit up with a start and stare at the silhouette of John filling up the doorway.

"Dad," Dean begins, frantic. "It's... it's not what it looks like."

"Then what the hell is it?!" John roars. "Because right now it looks like you dragged this guy through hell and forced him into your bedroom. The _fuck_ is wrong with you, boy?!"

"What?" Cas asks, astonished. "No! Dean was –"

Dean starts, "I was –"

Neither of them can finish that sentence.

John's face drops with sudden realization, and he rubs his face with his hand. "I think we need to have a talk, son."

Dean looks at Cas apologetically and then back to his father. He takes a deep breath.

Today really is the day. Dean can't believe this is happening.

He gets out of bed – _thank god_ still wearing pants – and walks past his father in the doorway, shutting the door behind him so that Cas doesn't have to listen to the travesty that's about to unfold.

His father walks ahead of him, gesturing with his head for Dean to follow. They walk into the living room, and John turns on his heel and gets in Dean's face. "You wanna tell me what the motherfucking _hell_ is going on here, Dean? I come home to a bloody fucking hand towel on my goddamn dining room table and half the first aid kit strewn about the fucking room, and when I go into check on you, you have a man in bed with you who looks like someone used his face as a goddamn bowling ball!"

Dean doesn't answer. He stares at his feet and feels like he did when he was little, when he spilled his milk, or fell down, or broke a toy, or did a million other things that kids all over the world do to disappoint their fathers who expect more out of them.

He feels like he did something wrong.

"I'll tell you what, you better have a damn good story for this, 'cause I didn't raise no..." John shoves his index finger onto Dean's sternum to punctuate every word, "...goddamn fairy faggot for a son."

Dean continues staring at his feet, wobbling with the force of his father's finger ramming into his chest.

"You hear me?" John continues, getting into Dean's space and forcing him to look at John. "I said _I did not raise a goddamn queer_."

When Dean stays silent, John shoves him, and shouts, " _Well?! Boy?! You gonna say something to me or not?!_ "

Dean considers that idea. He feels like he did something _wrong_. Something so wrong that, down to his core, he feels guilt. Guilt over the happiest he's ever been. Guilt over one of the things he loves most about himself: the capacity to love at all, and the knowledge that – below the masks, under the stone shell, amongst all his awkwardness and self-consciousness – he just _knows_ that he has something to offer someone else, somewhere in this world.

And it suddenly infuriates him that, just because he prefers men, he has to squash that purity, that love down so far within him, that he forgot until this moment it existed at all.

Dean nods to himself, and a calm sets over him.

He finally looks at John, and replies, quiet, "You're right." Dean takes a step toward him and forces John to take a step back. He stands up at his full height and looks down at his father. "You didn't raise a fairy faggot for a son."

John laughs, mirthless, and claps Dean on the shoulder. "You're sure as hell right I didn't. So you best get to the part where you explain why you have one in your goddamn room right now. And it better be a _damn_ good story–"

Dean takes a page from Cas's book on _just fucking owning it_ and smiles down at John, shaking his head. "No, you don't understand. I am _absolutely_ a fucking fairy faggot." Dean continues stepping forward, forcing John to step backward. For every step, he elaborates, "Cocksucker. Nancy. Fruitcake." He stops when John's back hits the front door, and Dean looms over him. " _Gay_."

John stares at him, sneer on his face, blood boiling under the surface.

Dean recognizes the signs. They're the eggshells Dean's been so careful to avoid stepping on his entire life; eggshells labeled, _Don't push Dad too far_ , _he'll snap,_ or _Be careful, you don't know what he'll do_ , or – worst of all – _You don't want to end up like Mom._

"I agree with you, Dad," Dean continues. "You didn't raise a goddamn queer." Dean gets in his face just like the thousands of times John has gotten in his over the years, cross-eyed and angry, shoving his index finger right in the center of his chest. He narrows his eyes, vindictive and furious. " _You didn't raise me at all_."

If John Winchester was an atom bomb, this moment would be Hiroshima.

John sneers, growling, and bunches up Dean's shirt in his fists, then yells, " _What did you just say to me?!_ "

"I _said_ ," Dean yells back, "that you're a _shitty_ father, a _shitty_ husband, a _shitty_ mechanic, and a _shitty_ drunk!"

With a roar, John raises his fist and brings it down on Dean's face.

Dean falls back with the impact, clutching the side of his head. His vision blurs at the edges and he shakes it off. Standing slowly, he looks at his father with dead eyes and retaliates by shoving John back onto the door, bunching his shirt in his hand, and raising his fist. Through clenched teeth, he says, livid, "This arm can throw a baseball at ninety miles an hour. These shoulders can swing a bat hard enough to make a ball fly four hundred feet. Do you _really_ want to feel that kind of force come crashing down on you?" He shakes his head once, adding, "Because I sure _as hell_ wouldn't."

John cowers against the door.

Dean maintains that he has had enough shit in his life to be able to appreciate the small moments.

But this is the very opposite of a small moment, and Dean has much less experience with those.

This is a moment when everything hangs in the precipice. This is a moment that will resonate throughout his entire life. This is a life-defining moment where Dean is given a choice that cannot be swayed by pleasing anyone, or hiding, or sacrificing himself and his happiness for some ideal of comfort and complacency.

This is a moment when, for the first time in his life, Dean Winchester gets to choose who he really is.

At the sight of John, shoulders hunched in an effort to protect his head from the potential fury of Dean's fist; at the realization that Dean no longer has to be the man his father has always wanted him to be; at the image of Castiel lying on his bed mere feet away...

Dean's expression finally softens. He lowers his fist, lets go of his father, and takes a step back. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he assures John before turning around and walking back toward his room. When he reaches for the knob, he looks back – his father is still leaning against the door, hunched over himself and scared, looking older and wearier and weaker than Dean has ever seen him – and adds, "I raised myself better than that."


	13. Chapter 6: Cas, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to split this chapter up again.
> 
> Just a heads up, for those of you who are anti-alternating POV, you can pretty much skip this entire chapter. It's just squee feels, because I like writing make-out scenes. In other words, an alternate title for this chapter would be "Gratuitous." Or "Just for the Fuck of It: An exploration of poetic inner dialogue while kissing."
> 
> So when you're sobbing/screaming/wanting to throw a brick at my head here soon, you should revisit this chapter to remember that happiness still exists in the world. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Michaela Grey for having an eye like a hawk when it comes to grammatical errors (of which I have many).

Dean Winchester's room is a physical manifestation of his mind.

And, like Dean's mind, Cas loves all of it.

It's minimal yet messy, utilitarian yet whimsical. It is a place that serves no other function than to be a sanctuary for the man currently standing next to Cas, looking bewildered at the way Cas takes it all in.

Just being in this room, with the dark blue walls and the big white bed and the giant bookshelf of poorly organized books and DVDs, feels so intimate all by itself. There are baseball uniforms covered in dirt and flannel over-shirts coated with motor oil on the ground. There's a picture of Dean and what appears to be Sam on the bedside table, young and happy. There's a map of the world above a small desk with a laptop on it. There are baseballs randomly strewn about the room, and a mitt and bat in the corner.

Castiel could reside in this room, in Dean's mind, every minute of every day and never lose an ounce of the wonder he feels at this very moment.

Dean offers to take the couch, and Cas almost laughs at how _gentlemanly_ that gesture is, as though Cas hasn't spent the past three years of his life as a prostitute.

Instead, he replies, "I would love to take your bed, but I'd much rather you sleep in it with me. If you'd like."

With that invitation, Dean pulls Cas in to kiss him again. Unlike the others, this kiss is filthy with desire, with Cas's sudden _need_ to have more of Dean, to touch every inch of his skin with his lips in an effort to appreciate him the way he deserves to be appreciated. He moves down to Dean's neck and kisses and bites and sucks the warm, beautiful skin there. Dean tastes like salt and hard work, and being this close to him reminds Cas of the smell and taste and feel of hot summer nights, what he imagines it's like to be an American in America on the Fourth of July, surrounded by lightning bugs and fireworks and nostalgia. It's beautiful and ephemeral, something Cas will never fully understand, but that's okay because Cas pulls Dean's shirt up over his head and –

" _Oхуеть."_

_Holy fuck._

Cas knows Dean resents his father for forcing him to become the athlete he is today, but right now Castiel is really fucking grateful for it. _God bless America_ , Cas thinks. No wonder baseball is a favorite pastime.

Cas roves his eyes down Dean's body and nearly faints when he sees the enormous bulge in Dean's jeans.

If Cas was worried before that he wouldn't survive the night, there is no way in hell he'll be able to survive it now.

As much as Castiel appreciates gazing at Dean, he realizes with a throb of his heart that this isn't a fantasy anymore. Dean fucking Winchester is right here, right in front of him, shirtless and sporting a truly impressive erection _because of Cas_.

Cas fights the urge to unbutton Dean's pants, drop to his knees, and go to town on him until Dean is screaming his name. Instead, he presses Dean by the hips and pushes him onto the bed, climbing on top of him to take off his own shirt.

He puts his mouth everywhere on Dean he can reach, frantically devouring him. He wraps his lips around a nipple and Dean hisses, arching his back off the bed. Cas moves to the other and Dean whines, "God, _Cas_..."

Cas grinds on top of him, rutting into his hip, and it's never been like this before. Cas has never been with anyone he's really wanted in return, who could make him so hard he thinks he'll come in his pants. _Fuck_ , Dean could probably make him come just by looking at him the right way, but thankfully his eyes are squeezed shut when Cas trails back up to suck Dean's lower lip into his mouth.

Cas's split lip stings like a motherfucker but somehow that just makes everything fucking _hotter_ , that there was a chance he might not have made it through the night but he _fucking did_ and now his reward for standing up for himself is Dean, writhing underneath him and leaking a huge wet spot of pre-cum in his jeans that Castiel has to physically restrain himself from taking care of.

Dean opens his eyes and sits up a little to wrap his arms around Cas and pull him down next to him so that their limbs are tangled in each other and they're as close as two people can be without one of them being inside the other, which Cas tries very hard not to think about because he could come at any second if he manages to get even a fraction more aroused than he is.

Thankfully, right as Cas is about to tear Dean's pants off and worship him the way he ought to be worshipped, Dean pushes Cas away.

They gasp ragged breaths as they stare at each other. Dean's face is red and his hair is mussed and his lips are bruised over. There are love marks all over his chest and neck and _dear God_ Cas wants to add more to the collection, brand him with this feeling so that Dean will always remember it's there, what meager offering Cas has to give: his adoration and affection, his loyalty and love.

But Cas doesn't need mind-Dean or real-Dean to remind him, _"Patience_. _"_ He knows they should wait, that tonight is too emotionally fraught, too weighted with destructive consequences.

[Patience is a very difficult concept for one such as Castiel Krushnic, who lives his life impulsively, as though he might die at any moment.](https://38.media.tumblr.com/cf19bd78cbac4a1295955974b2c5b0ae/tumblr_n7ovieGoKF1r2kbm4o1_r1_1280.jpg)

Because that is a very real possibility within his devastating reality.

Before he can change his mind, Cas blurts out, "I don't think we should do this right now, Dean," even though the other half of his mind is screaming, _Fuck him. Fuck him fuck him fuck him for the love of all that is holy, take three seconds to prep yourself and then ride him into oblivion_.

"Yeah, I... I kind of agree. I don't want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Don't get me wrong, Cas. I want you. I mean I really, _really_ want you. But I want more than your body." If Castiel is made of fire, Dean is cool, soothing, healing water. When Dean kisses his head and heart, every muscle in Cas's body relaxes and he feels like he can finally breathe. "We'll wait," he adds before kissing Cas again.

Now that the fire has been put out, Cas is left to face the reality of the situation again. His life is totally _fucked_ in every sense of the word. And now, this man in front of him, with the body of a marble statue and the heart of a saint is showing him more kindness than Cas thought possible.

It's all too much.

Dean pulls away. "What's wrong?"

Cas babbles at him, overcome with emotion. "You deserve someone whose life isn't..." Chaotic. Dramatic. Tragic. Dangerous. Pathetic. "Mine."

Expression stern, Dean replies, "I don't know all the details yet, and I don't know what we're up against, but you're brave, and you're strong, and you're gonna get out of this situation. _We_ are gonna get you out of this situation."

Then Dean kisses Cas again and that wave of intoxicating relief washes over him once more.

He snuggles closer to Dean, and feels at peace enough in the warm ocean of Dean's embrace that, when he finally asks Cas what happened tonight, Cas tells him.

It occurs to Cas, as Dean listens to him with nothing but compassion and openness, that he never asked why Dean chose his major in lieu of one that makes more sense in his existing life, like mechanical engineering.

"Because the brain is the most complex engine there is." He pauses, and adds, "And I want to figure out why my mom killed herself."

Cas understands that grief. He and Dean don't share much in common, but it's comforting being in the presence of someone who understands tragedy on the same level as Cas does, who understands loss, and being hated for who they are, and fear. So much fear.

Cas kisses Dean's cheek in solidarity, heart fluttering at his newfound ability to express the extent of his affection toward Dean.

They fall asleep soon after.

***

"What the _FUCK_ is going on here?!"

That must be John Winchester, Cas thinks, bolting awake with Dean. Of course it is. Because Cas can't have a simple night of sleep with someone he actually cares about.

As Cas reaches full awareness, he realizes the implications of this situation in Dean's life.

Nauseating, all-consuming guilt takes over.

Castiel _outed_ Dean.

He never wanted that to happen.

Not until Dean was ready, that is. When Dean would have chosen this moment on his own terms instead of being thrown into it, which wouldn't have happened if Cas hadn't called him, which wouldn't have happened if Cas hadn't been caught with him, which wouldn't have happened if Cas had never invited him to his gay luau in the first place.

This is all Cas's fault.

"Dad," Dean's voice cracks. "It's... it's not what it looks like."

"Then what the hell is it?!" John slurs. John is a large man with a booming voice, wavering on his own feet in what Cas assumes is, at best, moderate intoxication. "Because right now it looks like you dragged this poor boy through hell and forced him into your bedroom. The _fuck_ is wrong with you, boy?!"

"What?" Cas asks. How could anyone who has known Dean for five minutes think he's capable of this kind of damage? "No! Dean was –"

Dean adds, "I was –"

They trail off.

John takes a deep breath, and rubs his face with his hand. "I think we need to have a talk, son."

Dean looks at Cas, and with the light streaking in from the door, Cas can see unabashed terror on his face. He looks like a little boy who just got caught red-handed, doing something innocent that some grown-up doesn't want him to do for no apparent reason. He doesn't understand why what he's doing is wrong, he just knows he's bad, and he needs to work harder to do what he's told.

It breaks Cas's heart.

When Dean leaves the room and shuts the door, Cas crawls over to it and listens through the crack.

He physically aches in sympathy for Dean as he listens to John rant and rave and call him all the names that Castiel has been called his whole life, insulting the very core of his being.

Dean finally speaks up, but it's muffled. Cas can hear the sternness in his voice, and then he's shouting, "...you're a _shitty_ father, a _shitty_ husband, a _shitty_ mechanic, and a _shitty_ drunk!"

There's a loud _thud_ and Cas gasps, contemplating if he should intervene, when he hears another _thud_ and Dean yells, "This arm can throw a baseball at ninety miles an hour. These shoulders can swing a bat hard enough to make a ball fly four hundred feet. Do you _really_ want to feel that kind of force come crashing down on you? Because I sure _as hell_ wouldn't."

Cas fans himself. He knows that shouldn't be hot but it _totally is_.

There's a pause, and Dean says, "I'm not gonna hurt you."

Cas hears footsteps padding back to the room, so he hurls himself back onto the bed and under the covers.

"I raised myself better than that."

When Cas hears that, he cannot stop himself from grinning and pumping his fist in the air, but the second the door opens, he covers his shoulder with the blanket and pretends he wasn't listening.

Dean enters the room and closes the door gently behind him, then crawls back into bed with Cas.

They immediately tangle themselves around each other as though they've done it a million times before.

"Are you okay?" Cas asks softly.

Dean nods. His head is pressed against Cas's chest, and Cas runs his fingers through his hair.

"Do you... want me to leave?"

In response, Dean shakes his head and squeezes Cas closer to him.

Cas kisses his forehead. "How do you feel?"

Muffled in Cas's chest, Dean mumbles, "I dunno."

After a long silence, Cas says, quiet, "That was amazing, what you did just now."

"You heard all that?" Dean asks, removing his head from Cas's chest and meeting his gaze.

"A little bit," Cas lies. He looks Dean's face up and down. "This is a good look on you though."

"What is?"

Cas grins. "Victory."

And suddenly Dean is kissing him with a new level of fervor, no more tentative movements and hesitation, just intense passion. His tongue is in Cas's mouth, exploring it, and tiny moans escape his throat as he drags his fingers down Cas's back and cups his ass, squeezing it and lining their hips up so that their dicks are pressed against each other with so many pesky layers of fabric in the way.

Dean rolls on top of Cas, and Cas parts his legs, inviting Dean between them.

Ducking his head into Cas's neck, he trails rough kisses and bites down his neck with ragged breaths.

Cas tries to stifle the noises that involuntarily emit from his throat as Dean lowers himself down his body and bites down gently on one of Cas's nipples, flicking the other with his thumb. He crawls down further and Cas bites down on his non-damaged fist to attempt to regain any semblance of control over himself.

Dean bites and licks all the way down to Cas's hip bones and across his abdomen, and his face is so close to Cas's cock that he thinks he might hyperventilate with how much he wants Dean's mouth wrapped around it, but he can't think of that image right now, of Dean on his knees in front of Cas, taking him all the way down his throat, because Cas will absolutely explode.

But the boundaries have already been set for the night, and Dean slows down, making his kisses languid, letting his hands and lips explore Cas's body. Dean is gentle around the bruises on his ribs and stomach, and he moves over to Cas's hand, kissing the raw skin on each of his knuckles before kissing his way up Cas's arm and into his neck again, licking across his collarbone and biting gently on his shoulder.

Dean ends up where he started, on Cas's lips. The weight of Dean's body barely resting on top of him, the feel of his hardness barely grazing his own, the brush of his lips barely pressing soft kisses to Cas's mouth, make Cas writhe and pant underneath him.

Cas opens his eyes to Dean's astonishing green ones staring at him intently. Dean lifts his hand to caress the side of Cas's face and says, "I don't care what's in your past. I don't care what's really going on in your present. I need you to understand that no matter what you tell me, I'm not gonna see you any differently than how I see you right now."

Cas smirks. "Bruised and broken?"

"No." Dean searches Cas's eyes, looking from one to the other. "Victorious."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beautiful fanart for this chapter is by the amazing and talented [Feminist Fairy.](http://feminist-fairy.tumblr.com/post/89833033134)


	14. Chapter 6: Cas, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So bad news, I won't be able to post tomorrow because my sister wants me to "get out of the house" because "that Cheeto tangled in your hair has been there for a week." I can't live up to these kind of expectations, man.
> 
> PS Can't tell if [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela) hates me yet or not for this chapter.

Most people have nightmares of their greatest fears.

Castiel Krushnic, however, has faced all of his fears and then some.

So Cas's worst nightmares are really just memories.

***

_Castiel, age sixteen, lay awake most nights after nightfall, hands tucked behind his head, staring out the large window of his bedroom that overlooked a valley of forest._

_On one such night, book propped open on his chest, he heard a crashing noise from the floor below him, and quiet crackling, which sounded like heavy rain. As the crackling grew louder, the smell of smoke became prominent in his room, and he leapt off his bed to investigate._

_He opened his door to find absolute chaos. The foyer and left staircase were completely engulfed in flame. The chandelier teetered on its chain and collapsed onto the ground with another large crash._

_Cas dashed down the hallway and opened every one of his siblings' rooms. They were all empty except for Anna's, and when he reached hers, he ran to her sleeping form and shook her awake._

_She opened her sleepy grey eyes and coughed, eyes widening with the realization that something very big and very bad  was happening. Cas grabbed her by the hand and pulled her out of her bed, and they ran back out to the hallway to dash down the right set of stairs. As they reached the bottom, a beam fell from the ceiling and the fire from it spread up to the second floor._

_Cas's blood pounded in his ears, but above it, he heard a gun fire off a round, a loud, agonized shriek, and another shot which stopped the screaming abruptly._

_Castiel and Anna ran to the source of the noise, the kitchen._

_It took Cas's eyes a moment to focus beyond the bright light of the flames. Several figures were huddled in the corner, with three more figures standing in front of them, holding semi-automatic rifles and wearing gas masks, their backs to Cas and Anna._

_Cas realized with a wave of panic that the figures huddled in the corner were Cas's mother, father, Naomi, Gabriel, and Michael._

_Cas's mother and Naomi were both slumped over each other on the ground, bullet holes in their heads and eyes still open in empty agony._

_Gabriel and Michael stood in front of their father, protecting him, defiant against the intruders._

_Gabe wore a saddened, dark scowl. Michael sneered at the gas-masked men, daring them to shoot._

_When Gabe noticed Anna and Cas in the doorway, his expression softened and his eyes widened in terror. "GET OUT!" he mouthed to them, sound obscured by the blood in Cas's ears and the violent crackle and roar of the fire around them._

_Cas moved forward, toward them, instead of backward, toward the front door and the only available exit not obstructed by flames._

_As Gabe shook his head, Anna wrapped her arm around Cas's stomach and dragged him toward the front door, half carrying him._

_The men in gas masks turned and aimed their rifles at Cas and Anna, and a series of bullets flew at them. They narrowly missed them all, running behind a thick tile wall and dashing toward the front door, which Anna threw open and pushed Cas through, slamming it behind her._

_They ran. In the distance, they heard more gunfire._

_They ran some more, and then they heard a cracking, crashing noise that shook the ground under their feet._

_Cas darted around trees, the fiery red hair of his sister in his peripheral vision, close at his heels. Twigs and rocks pierced the skin of his feet. Branches scraped at his face and arms. His lungs burned and his side ached, but still they ran, as fast as their feet could lead them._

_He dared a look behind him. Where their house should have been standing, there was only flames and rubble._

_Their home was gone. Their family was dead. They had nowhere to go._

_So they kept running._

***

Castiel wakes up with a gasp and doesn't understand where he is.

There's an arm wrapped around his waist, and a face pressed against the back of his neck.

He's facing a bookcase and is eye-level with a shelf that appears to be devoted entirely to tattered paperback Kurt Vonnegut novels.

Early morning light streaks through the windows of the dark blue room.

 _Dean_.

He's in Dean Winchester's bedroom. More likely than not, the arm draped across him belongs to Dean Winchester. This is the same arm, Cas realizes, that pitched a perfect game their freshman year of college.

This isn't how mornings normally go. Cas's life consists of having vivid nightmares of his past and waking up to even worse nightmares of his present.

His life is not one where he has vivid nightmares of his past and wakes up to Dean fucking Winchester as the big spoon. In Dean's room. In Ohio. In the United States of America.

Every day Cas is surprised to wake up in a bed instead of in Russia, on the cold cement ground of an alleyway covered by trash and scraps of cardboard, shifting around in unspeakable amounts of pain from the trauma of the previous evening.

Cas shifts around now, though, and feels all the familiar aches and pains involved in the morning after fistfights of the night prior.

He turns over to face Dean, sleeping soundly and eyes flitting under their lids. Dean's beautiful, soft lips are parted, and his breathing is deep and even. There's a bruise formed at his temple and cheekbone where his father must have hit him, and marks all across his neck and chest where it is evident that Cas lost all manner of self-control the night before.

Dean is the finest work of art Castiel has ever seen. He is the most precious, purest good this world has to offer.

But Cas breaks everything he touches. He always has, and he always will. So he sighs, making the second most difficult choice he's ever had to make.

Castiel brushes his lips against Dean's forehead in a kiss as light as air, and pulls away, whispering, "I'm sorry I have to do this, Dean. But I hope you understand."

Gently, Cas eases out of Dean's embrace and stands from the bed.

His heart immediately shatters into a million pieces when Dean frowns, wrinkles his forehead, and shifts around slightly, trying to figure out where the warmth of Cas's body went.

Cas picks up his discarded shirt off the ground and puts it back on. He pulls the blanket over Dean's shoulder, and stands to walk out of the room, out of his Dean's life, forever. With tears in his eyes, he hesitates in the doorway, and whispers, _"Я люблю тебя."_

_I love you._

***

Cas stands outside the pawnshop, staring down at his empty wrist where his _Ballon Bleu de Cartier_ used to be, his $6,000 watch that he just hocked for a measly $1,200.

He doesn't remember when he became so materialistic, so petty, but it disgusts him. It feels like Dick has made his way into his blood, turned him into the vile, shallow creature that he is now, balking at selling a watch.

He grumbles. It was a _really_ nice watch.

Cash in his wallet, he turns the corner down an alleyway toward the bus station to book it as far out of town as he can make it, staring at his wrist and wondering when the hell he got tan lines from wearing it, and stops when the body of a man obstructs his path.

A large pair of feet in black combat boots stand in front of him, and Cas rakes his eyes up the man's body, past his tattered denim jeans, past his worn leather jacket where his hands reside, past a hideous scar across the entire width of the man's neck, past a half-smoked cigarette dangling between a pair of lips etched in a permanent scowl, and stops when he finally gets to a pair of bright blue eyes that Cas sees every day of his life when he looks in a mirror.

Cas freezes.

 _Michael_.

Footsteps echo in the alley behind him, and he hears a familiar laugh.

Castiel turns around slowly, and confirms his worst suspicions.

With a crooked grin that Cas hasn't seen in five years, Gabriel raises a revolver to Cas's head and asks, "What's wrong, little bro? You look like you've seen a ghost."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Sits in full-plate armor eating Cheetos* I am ready for your feedback.


	15. Chapter 7: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much plot. 
> 
> Pretty sure I'm not gonna get through this without [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela) flipping a table over at least once.

Dean wakes up, as usual, to an empty bed.

He looks at the clock on his bedside table. It's eight o’clock. He doesn't have to be at practice for another hour, so he rolls over and buries his face in a pillow.

He breathes in.

It smells like sunshine.

Two things register in his mind at the same time: there is a dull, throbbing ache in his head; and Cas fell asleep with him last night.

At first, Dean thinks Cas must be in the bathroom because he's definitely not in the bedroom. It doesn't occur to him that Cas would have just left of his own volition, without communicating to Dean his whereabouts or how they could stay in contact given the sensitivity of the situation at hand. Then Dean's gut instincts take over and convince him that's not the case, and that something is very _wrong_.

Suddenly, his doorbell rings about seven times in rapid succession, followed by a fist pounding on his front door.

He gets up and hurries to the source of the noise. As he steps into the living room, his father throws open his bedroom door, hair on end and looking furious.

Dean reaches the front door and looks out the peephole to a fishbowl distortion of long, copper red hair atop a worried expression.

Opening the door and his mouth to greet Charlie, she immediately interrupts him with, "Where's Cas?"

Then she roves her eyes up and down Dean's face and torso and asks, "What the hell happened to you?"

Dean opens his mouth again to answer both questions, but Charlie barges in, pushing past Dean and looking around. "Is he here?"

Again, Dean tries to answer, but Charlie adds, "I can't find him anywhere. He's not answering his texts and neither is Dick, which is really weird. And they both had finals this morning and neither of them showed and it's just so _weird_ for both of them, because they're both so damn punctual all the damn time and their phones are like limbs to them, you know? I'm just really worried because I have this, like, weird feeling in my gut–"

"Charlie," Dean finally interrupts, grabbing her by the shoulders.

She gasps in surprise, but stays silent.

"Cas slept here last night, but he's gone now. He chucked his phone out onto Xenia somewhere when I went to get him. He and Dick got into a... fight, I guess."

Charlie smirks, trying to hide a smile. "He slept here last night?"

"Yeah," Dean replies, face flushing.

Charlie presses her lips together and flits her eyes down to Dean's neck and chest. Dean doesn't need a mirror to know that he's probably covered in evidence of Cas's stay.

And his father is standing right behind him, glaring daggers into the back of Dean's head.

He lets go of Charlie's shoulders and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, squeezing his eyes shut. "Cas is missing. Dick is missing. And we have no way to communicate with either of them. And you're here– wait, how did you know where I live?"

Charlie has already moved past Dean and is sitting at their dining room table, opening her laptop. She's not listening. "What's your wifi password?"

John answers, leaning against a wall, "Pete Rose. One word," then he asks, pointedly avoiding direct eye contact with Dean, "Who is this woman and why is she in my house right now?"

Without looking up, Charlie replies, "Because if Dick Roman goes missing, all hell breaks loose."

Dean suddenly remembers the look on Cas's face last night when he said, _"It would put your life in danger. Being here, knowing you at all puts your life in danger."_

"Who the fuck is Dick Roman?" John asks. "And again, who are you?"

"Cas's boyfriend. Fiancé. Whatever," Charlie replies, fingers dancing across the keyboard between furious bouts of clicking the track pad, ignoring the second question.

Dean adds, "Dad, this is Charlie."

Without looking up, Charlie says absently, "Nice meeting you, John."

Dean furrows his brow. "How did you–"

John glares at Dean. "You're fucking a guy in a relationship? Jesus Christ, Dean!"

"No!" Dean yells back. "I'm not fucking him, and he's not–"

"What do you mean you're not fucking him?" John gestures emphatically to Dean's chest and neck as evidence.

" _Awkward_ ," Charlie whispers while continuing to type frantically.

"It's not–" Dean's head is throbbing, and his face is on fire. He takes a deep breath. "It's not what it looks–"

"Hey guys, shut up for a sec," Charlie interrupts, holding her hand up. "Where's the nearest pawnshop?"

"Third Street," Dean replies.

"It's called Anybody's Pawn Shop," John adds.

Charlie continues typing, then gestures for Dean to come look at her laptop.

Security footage shows Cas talking to a clerk in a store filled with junk. It's black and white and there's no sound, but it's definitely Castiel, wearing the same outfit he wore last night, but looking more rumpled and less formal than usual. He gestures repeatedly to his watch and looks increasingly irritated as the seconds continue.

"Where did you get this? And when was this taken?" Dean asks.

"An hour ago," Charlie replies, ignoring the first question.

John, huddled near the laptop, settles his face into a stony expression, eyeing Dean skeptically. "This boy. Cas. With the... wounds." He stands up straight and gestures to his face, making a big circle with his index finger. "Is he in trouble?"

Dean looks to Charlie, who finally looks up from her laptop to John and replies, "Probably."

"With Dick Roman," John concludes.

Charlie says, "Yep," at the same time Dean says, "Yeah."

"Who used his face as a bowling ball."

Dean and Charlie both nod.

"And how is this any of your business, Dean?" John asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

Dean blinks at his father, mind completely void of plausible answers. He's known Cas for two weeks now, and none of this situation has ever been any of his business. He has repeatedly _made_ it his business, when he could have easily just walked away from the whole thing.

He could still walk away from the whole thing.

But he's not going to.

Charlie looks back and forth between them, and quickly answers, "Because Cas has been in love with Dean for two years and when they officially finally met like two weeks ago it was seriously like fireworks and they've been secretly in love with each other ever since. But it hasn't really been a secret because they really, really suck at hiding it and that's why we're in this mess."

Dean slowly turns his head toward Charlie, eyes wide. "What the _fuck_ , Charlie?!"

She shrugs, palms up, with a sorry-but-somebody-had-to-say-it look on her face.

Dean pauses. "Wait. Two years?"

John rubs a hand over his face. "Okay. Charlie, what do you think is actually going on here?"

Charlie closes her laptop and looks at John. "I think Dick kidnapped Cas and is trying to get him deported."

Dean shakes his head. "Dick couldn't have kidnapped Cas. He was here. With me. I would have known if someone kidnapped him."

Charlie looks at Dean, sympathy etched on her face. She hesitates before suggesting, "Then maybe he just left."

Dean hadn't thought of that. His chest physically hurts to even consider it.

Maybe Cas just... _left_.

"But I think wherever he went, Dick caught him," Charlie continues. "And he's going to throw Cas back to Russia where he'll likely go back to prison for illegally leaving the country in the first place."

"Whoa whoa whoa," John says. " _Back_ to Russia? _Back_ to prison? Kidnapping? What the _hell_ is going on?"

Dean ignores him. "And you're getting all this out of Dick ignoring your texts."

"And both of them missing their finals," Charlie adds.

"So you're jumping to the most far-flung conclusion ever _because they missed a test?"_

Charlie sighs, exasperated. "Dean, you are a beautiful, beautiful man, and you have a heart of gold. But you're about as sharp as a teaspoon. My point is that this is _Dick Roman and Castiel Krushnic_ we're talking about here. Have you even _met_ them?They're the biggest drama queens in the fucking world!"

Charlie has a point.

After a short silence, John asks, "So what do we do?"

It takes Dean a moment to register that it's _John Winchester_ – the ultimate kill-or-be-killed isolationist of all time – who just asked what _they_ , together, are going to do. Dean glares at him. " _We_ don't do anything. Charlie and I will handle this."

"The hell you will," John replies. "I don't know this Cas character, and frankly, I don't care to, but if you're so dead-set on rescuing your friend or whatever he is..."

" _Whatever he is_ ," Dean confirms of the two options.

"... this damsel-in-distress Russian ex-con, then your old man ain't gonna sit idly by and watch you get hurt." He pauses and averts his eyes. "I may not be the best father in the world. I might even be the furthest thing from it..." John takes a deep breath and looks between the two of them, staring at Dean for several seconds before seeming to come to a conclusion. "But I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you walk out that door without me in tow."

Dean stares at his father, gaping, completely unable to comprehend the man in front of him and the one-eighty he's managed to pull in the span of six hours.

Charlie clears her throat. "So... pawnshop?"

***

A bell jingles when the three of them enter. A dude with a mullet is sitting behind a glass counter, giant screwdriver in hand, fixing a small electronic device of mysterious functionality.

He looks up at the three of them, and when he sees John, grins. "Well, if it ain't John Winchester! How you been, man?" He sets the screwdriver down and holds his hand out for John to shake.

John shakes it. "Ash! Hey, man. I've been good. You?"

With a shake of his head, Ash replies, "Five by five."

Ever impatient, Charlie sets her laptop down on the counter and says, "I hacked into your security feed. Can you tell me everything you know about this transaction?" She spins the computer toward him and presses the space bar.

Ash watches a few seconds of it, then looks up at Charlie and asks, "You hacked into my security feed?"

She nods.

Ash blinks. "Impressive."

"Thanks. We really need to find this guy though. Did he mention anything to you? Where he was headed? Anything?" she asks.

Ash narrows his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest. "Had a nice watch, a Carter–"

"Cartier," Charlie corrects.

"–Car-tee-ay, yeah. Anyway, no, he didn't say anything, but he was real snippy about the watch."

Charlie sighs and shuts her laptop.

"But I think I overheard him talking to some guys outside after he left. I couldn't see them but when I went outside for a smoke, they mentioned something about running late for a wedding."

Charlie, Dean, and John simultaneously exclaim, _"WHAT?!"_

Ash takes a step back, holding his hands up. "Just what I heard, man. They weren't speaking English for most of the conversation, but I definitely heard 'em say 'late' and 'wedding' somewhere in there."

Charlie asks, "Do you have another security camera somewhere that I missed? Outside maybe?"

Ash shakes his head. "I don't, but Ellen does. She owns the apartments upstairs." He reaches behind him and grabs a broom, then lifts it above him and slams the handle into the ceiling. "ELLEN! I gotta ask you a question!"

" _What_?!" a woman screams from above them.

Ash holds up a finger to them, nodding knowingly, and adds, "Actually, John Winchester's gotta ask you a question!"

Footsteps walk over the floor above them, then silence, then a door opens at the back of the shop and a middle-aged woman enters, flipping her hair back and walking slowly toward them. "Well, if it ain't John Winchester."

John leans across the counter and smirks at her. "Well, if it ain't Ellen Harvelle."

"How you been, you dirty old bastard?" She smirks back at him and leans onto the counter too.

Ash takes a step back.

Dean and Charlie look at each other, wide-eyed.

"Good, good. Hey listen, any chance we can take a look at some of your security tapes?"

She huffs a laugh. "Any chance you could give me that call you promised me ten years ago?"

If he's correct about what he thinks Ellen just implied, Dean is now utterly fucking _traumatized_.

John chuckles and gives her a sly smile. "How about a drink instead?"

A therapist. Dean is going to need a goddamn therapist.

Ellen clucks and waves her hand at him. "You're nothing but a flirt, Winchester, you know that?"

Before John can answer, Dean clears his throat, because if they don't move on with this conversation, his mind will absolutely combust. "Security footage? Please?"

John stands up straight and so does Ellen. "This must be baby Winchester," she says, eyeing Dean up and down. "You sure do make 'em pretty, John," she adds, nodding to the back of the store. "Come on back."

***

The four of them huddle around a small television in the back room of the pawnshop. Charlie fast-forwards to the footage they're looking for, but there's no sound, so all they see is Cas standing between two men, one of whom has a gun pointed to his head. The other one stands behind Cas, smoking a cigarette, hands in his pockets, not speaking.

After several minutes of talking, the man with the gun walks around Cas and puts his arm around the smoking man's shoulders. The first man laughs a lot, but the second man remains stoic and unspeaking.

With a visible sigh, Cas turns around and lets them cuff his hands together. The men lead him out of the alleyway and out of the frame of the camera.

"Were either of those guys Dick?" John asks.

"Nope," Charlie says, shaking her head.

Dean rubs a hand over his face. "This just got way more confusing."

"Yep," Charlie says, nodding. "We're boned."

"What do we do now?" Dean asks.

Charlie swivels around in her chair to face them. "Do either of you know how to pick a lock?"

***

Of course John Winchester knows how to pick a lock, Dean thinks. Of course. Because Dean has learned more about his father in the span of the last two hours than he has in 21 years of living.

John is on his knees, fumbling with a bobby pin Charlie gave him in the doorknob of Dick Roman's penthouse suite.

Dean and Charlie keep watch on either side of the hallway, but Dean suspects that the suite takes up the entire wing.

"Got it," John says as the door swings open.

They enter. The place is enormous, with a floor-to-ceiling window spanning an entire wall looking down on the city.

The living room is tidy except for a few upturned chairs and, Dean notices, a hole in the drywall right at about the height of Dick Roman's head, a smear of blood trailing down the wall below it.

Dean remembers the state of Cas's knuckles and the story he told, imagining the scene so vividly it was like Dean was here when it happened.

John steps behind Dean and puts his hand on his shoulder. "I'd hate to see the guy who did that."

Dean swallows. "You did."

"Damn," John says. "What have you gotten us into?"

Dean shakes his head, and replies quietly, "I don't know."

"Hey guys!" Charlie calls. "In here!"

John and Dean rush into a room that Dean can immediately tell is Castiel's, simply by the... Cas-ness of it: dramatic, showy, a façade. Dean has lived in his own façade for so long that he can recognize one when he sees it. There are still tiny details, though, that remind him of Cas, the _real_ Cas, the complex, crazy Russian boy that he is. There's the smell of the room, which immediately takes Dean back to last night and the feel of Cas's lips on his own. There's the gaudy plastic lei that Cas was wearing when they first met hanging on the corner of the closet door. There are several dozen yellow post-it notes stuck on a wall above a large desk in the corner.

Some of them are in Russian, but Dean spots one in English, in what he assumes is Cas's tiny, nearly-illegible scrawl:

_Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness._

Otherwise, everything is white. One wall is a giant window covered in white sheer drapes. The hardwood floor is covered with a soft white rug under the four-poster king-sized bed with an enormous canopy, which may just be the gayest thing Dean has ever seen.

And, thinking back to his hard drive, that's really saying something.

The walk-in closet, which has been completely turned upside down, is bigger than Dean's room, and is filled with clothes so expensive, the contents alone are probably worth more than Dean's entire house.

Other than the tiny details, the room seems cold and sterile, and feels more like a prison cell than a bedroom.

Charlie is sitting cross-legged on Cas's bed, laptop perched on her knee, and types furiously. She picks up a piece of paper from the bed and hands it to Dean.

"What's this?" Dean asks.

"Cas and I used to do this thing to avoid Dick if we were worried he was reading our texts or listening to our phone conversations. We would stuff notes inside Cas's pillow and write to each other back and forth when I would have to come here for work while he was at school, and when he would come home after I left."

Dean looks at it. It's a yellow post-it, like the ones on the wall, and the sticky part is folded over onto itself while the rest of it is folded in half. He opens it, and reads two words written in big, capital letters:

_BORIS ROMANOV_


	16. Chapter 7: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As cryingneedforthat recommended a few chapters ago, "Pretty sure we as a group are going to need t-shirts after reading the end of this fic. Something like 'I SURVIVED DEAN WINCHESTER'S GAY VIRGINITY,' or maybe 'INFINITE POINTS FOR THE GAY.'" 
> 
> I want you all to know that not only am I in support of this, but that I agree with it. By the end of this fic, if I've done my job right, _you are going to want a t-shirt for surviving this._ Like a 5k. Or a family vacation. 
> 
> And I'm going to want a t-shirt for surviving it too, assuming Michaela Grey doesn't kill me before I can.

"Gabriel," Cas says, voice low.

Gabe raises his other hand, the one not pointing a gun at Cas's face, to his heart. "Aw, you remember me! I'm touched."

Cas swallows. "Gabriel, why are you pointing a gun at me? I'm in a lot of trouble and I'm causing a lot of trouble for other people, so please just let me go. I need to leave. Now."

Gabriel chuckles. "Looks like you've lost some IQ points in your old age, bro. You're sure as shit in a lot of trouble, but guess what? Mikey and I?" He cocks the gun and drops his smile. " _We're_ your trouble."

"Dick hired you," Cas concludes.

Gabe touches the tip of his nose. "Ding ding ding! Looks like we have a winner! Michael, what's the man's prize?"

Michael remains silent.

"He's not too good at improv," Gabe whispers.

"How long have you been following me?" Cas asks, panic finally setting in.

Gabe shrugs. "A year or two. Or three. Time flies when you're having fun. And by 'fun' I mean watching our little brother slowly become a disgusting, spoiled brat who gets to live in the lap of luxury and not lift a fucking finger."

Cas gapes at him. "Are you fucking _kidding me?_ Do you even know what Dick _does_ to me?" He points at his face as an example.

"I'd love to hear all about your sad little soap opera, but the strings of my tiny violin just broke so we're going to have to reschedule." Gabriel circles around Cas to stand next to Michael.

Cas turns around with him, and looks at the massive scar across Michael's throat. Gabe hasn't aged a day, but Michael looks like he's centuries old now. He's no longer just the bully who tormented Cas's childhood. Just one glance at his face tells Cas that he's gone from schoolyard bully to cold-blooded murderer, face worn and weary, small scars dotting him all over, and he doesn't look like he remembers how to smile. When he takes his hand out of his pocket to flick the ash dangling from his cigarette, Cas notices the top half of his pinky finger is missing.

"What happened to you, Michael?" Cas asks quietly.

Michael sneers at him.

"Ah, not too much," Gabe replies on his behalf, patting him on the back. Michael eyes him warily out of his peripheral vision. "Had all his dreams of becoming an opera singer dashed, though." Gabe lifts a finger to his throat and makes a cutting noise as he slashes it across his neck.

Michael elbows him in the stomach, and Gabe bends over with an _oof!_

When he stands back up, he rubs his stomach and says, "What? Too soon?"

Cas looks from Gabe to Michael, and says, "Please. You don't understand. I have to leave. I have to get out of here. You have to help me escape Dick."

Gabriel cackles. "Escape Dick? Never thought I'd hear _those_ words from you." He holds his hand up for Michael to high-five but Michael just glares at him.

Gabe shakes his head. "I swear, sometimes I think his sense of humor went with his vocal chords. Anyway, as fun as this family reunion has been, we're late for a wedding."

Cas blinks. "Whose wedding?"

Grinning, Gabriel replies, "Yours."

Cas's stomach leaps into his throat and he starts backing up slowly, shaking his head. "Please, Gabe. I'm begging you. I'll give you everything I have–"

"What? A few hundred dollars for hocking a watch that Daddy Dick rewarded you with for bending over?" Gabe laughs. "Baby brother, this is a dog-eat-dog world, and us dogs gotta eat. You do your dirty deeds for your paycheck, and we do ours. Now, my arm is getting tired and we're running late, so if you could, let's do this the easy way: turn around so I can cuff you."

A series of insane plans flit through Cas's mind, each one more ridiculous than the last. Can't run. Can't call for help. Can't scream. Can't _actually_ telepathically communicate with Charlie–

Charlie.

Reluctantly, Cas turns around and holds his wrists behind his back. When Gabe puts his gun away and approaches him, Cas asks, "I need to pick up my tuxedo from the penthouse."

"Not gonna happen," Gabe replies as he clicks the handcuffs closed.

"Gabe. We both work for Dick, but I'm the one who lives with him. The man is the definition of melodramatic. There will be a blood bath if I show up to my own wedding in what I'm presently wearing. I don't think you want to risk it."

Gabe shoves Cas forward and mumbles, "I'll think about it. Let's go."

***

When they get to the penthouse, Gabe inputs the PIN to shut off the silent security system, and Cas looks at Michael expectantly. "You need to uncuff me. I need to shower and shave and get dressed. I look like I got hit by a bus."

Michael eyes him suspiciously.

"I'm not an idiot, Michael. I'm not going to attempt to run from two fucking assassins, even if they are my blood relatives. Check my pockets. I don't have a cell phone. You can follow me around the whole place. I really just want to get this over with so we can go back to living peacefully as Dick's bitches."

Shoving Castiel roughly to turn him, Michael unlocks the cuffs.

Gabe sits on the couch and props his feet up on the coffee table.

Cas goes into his bedroom, heart pounding and Michael at his heels. He grabs his tux from the closet, but when Cas enters the bathroom, Michael yanks him back by his shirt and goes in first, inspecting it for windows and large vents. Seeing none, he lets Cas go in and shut the door behind him.

Cas leans against the sink and takes a deep breath. He's shaking and his mind is racing a mile a minute.

Castiel _saw_ their home crumble, engulfed in flames, seconds after he ran. There's no way anyone survived that.

But they did, somehow.

Figuring out how will not help him out of this situation, though. Priorities, he reminds himself. His priorities are keeping Anna and Dean safe. If they're going to a wedding, it can't be in Ohio because gay marriage isn't legal yet. So they're most likely going to either Illinois or Pennsylvania.

Of course Dick couldn't be a _rational_ raging psychopath. He couldn't just be _angry_ at Cas for beating him to a pulp. Only Dick would be able to go from wanting to kill him to wanting to marry him in the span of twelve hours.

Cas turns on the shower and gets undressed.

The problem is that Cas _thought_ he knew Dick. He thought he knew this situation better than anyone else, but now he finds out that this is all connected to the Russian fucking mafia, and his brothers are alive, and also assassins, and he barely understands any of it.

He organizes his thoughts and focuses on what he does know.

Dick wants to marry him. Dick _loves_ Cas. That is the one constant in this whole fucked up situation. Dick has always been head-over-heels in love with Cas, but he's insane, so he shows it in the worst way possible. 

Cas can't pretend to understand the logic of a crazy person. Maybe Dick actually _liked_ that Cas beat him up. Maybe Dick thinks this is all his fault and marrying Cas is his way of apologizing. Maybe Dick is raging in a possessive fury over Castiel and thinks it's the only way to keep him away from Dean. Maybe this is Dick's way of punishing Cas, because he knows it's the only thing that could crush any ounce of hope he may have had.

Maybe it's all of the above.

Regardless of what happens to Cas, he needs to warn Dean that they're both in danger of being squashed by an unspeakable, enormous force. Cas doesn't know what's going to happen, but he can see the path ahead of him. He can see all the tiny little points in his life, in the lives of his family members, and he knows that connecting all those dots creates a roadmap straight to Boris Romanov.

He steps in the shower, scalding hot water stinging his cuts, and formulates a plan with what little resources he has.

***

Cas shaves and dresses in his tuxedo. When he steps out of the bathroom, Michael's eyes widen just a fraction, and then immediately return to his permanent scowl.

Stepping over to his dresser drawers, Cas palms a pen from his nightstand and puts it in his pocket. Pretending his dresser isn't holding what he's looking for, he makes a _tsk_ noise and walks over to his desk to palm his post-it notes. He meanders back over to his dresser, opens a drawer, and sets the post-its in it and his pen, and pretends to shift through his truly astonishing collection of bowties while, with one hand, writing the name of Boris Romanov, and folding the small piece of paper.

He can feel Michael's eyes boring holes into the back of his head.

Taking out a plain black bowtie, Cas ropes it around his neck and ties it expertly, note in hand. When he walks to his full-length mirror to check his tie, he slips the note into his pillow, hoping Charlie, by some miracle, will come looking for him and find it, and then they can all figure out how dangerous Boris Romanov really is, and flee.

Or maybe save him. But Cas doesn't really want that as much as he wants them all to be safe and as far away from the Romanov family as possible.

Which Cas will soon become part of, effectively making it impossible to see Dean ever again.

The note is all he can do. He knows in his heart that Michael would jump at any chance to kill him, so he takes one last look at his bedroom, walks toward Michael, and says, "Okay, I'm ready."

Michael looks him up and down. Sneering, he takes a step toward Cas and stares directly into his eyes. Then he raises his hands toward Cas's neck.

Cas gasps. This is it. Michael is going to strangle him.

Instead, Michael grabs Cas's bowtie and straightens it gently, then turns on his heel and leaves the room, gesturing for Cas to follow.

***

Cas is re-handcuffed and situated uncomfortably in the back of Gabe's Escalade. Gabe is driving, and Michael is driving behind them separately.

"Illinois or Pennsylvania?" Cas asks.

Gabe turns onto I-70 West. "Chi-town, baby."

Cas wracks his brain. "What the hell is in Chicago?"

Gabe shrugs. "Gay marriage?"

Fair.

"Why not... I don't know... any other town in Illinois? Or Pennsylvania? Or Hawaii?" Chicago is at least a four hour drive from Dayton, and Cas is a little more than pissed that he'll be in this awkward position, arms cuffed behind his back, for that entire span of time.

His suit is going to wrinkle.

"No idea," Gabe replies.

"You couldn't have cuffed my hands in front of me?" Cas laments.

"Well, currently, my biggest regret on this drive is that I didn't gag you." Gabe's cell phone beeps and he takes it out of his pocket to check it, then types a response.

"You really shouldn't text and drive," Cas notes. "Who is that?"

Still typing, Gabe replies absently, "One, none of your damn business. And two, it's a bit necessary when the person with whom you're communicating lacks the vital organs with which to speak." He pauses. "Damn."

Cas contorts his entire body to look behind them at Michael's white muscle car. After a moment, the car slows and illegally crosses a grass median to do a U-turn onto I-70 East.

"Where's he going?" Cas asks.

"None of your damn business."

"We're going to be driving for a long time, aren't we?"

 _"God,_ I forgot how fucking _annoying_ you are," Gabe groans.

Cas grins at him in the rearview mirror. "I missed you too, Gabriel."

Staring out the window at the boring stretch of road between Dayton and Chicago, Cas considers his options.

The only viable option that he can see, though, is to marry Dick Roman, and hope no one dies or gets horribly maimed in the process.

The least he can do on this long, boring drive is entertain himself. Or get himself killed by irritating Gabe too much. Either way, it might be worth it. "So, Gabe. What have you been up to the last five years after, you know, impossibly escaping assassination by rampant gunfire and arson?"

Gabriel stares at the road ahead. "Working my ass off, which is more than I can say for you."

Cas chuckles darkly. He decides to start from the beginning, just to be an asshole and because he has nothing better to do. "So after Anna and I escaped imminent death, we were thrown into an orphanage–"

Gabe interrupts, "I don't want to hear this."

Cas pauses, and thinks a moment. "How late are we again?"

"Very."

"So there's no time to pull over and gag me. Great."

"I'll turn on the radio," Gabe says.

"I'll talk over it."

Gabe doesn't reply.

"Good. Anyway, Anna and I were thrown into an orphanage..."

Castiel goes through the whole shebang, start to finish. He tells Gabriel about how the orphanage turned a blind eye to the torture he had to endure. Cas and Anna were almost starved because the only food not covered in mold was mush. Cas was beaten by the other orphans, but he still tried so hard to protect Anna from the predators, the boys who wanted to take her in every way.

He tells Gabriel about their escape from the orphanage and Cas's foray into theft, stealing only from the excessively wealthy and mass chain stores. He got caught pick-pocketing an undercover SVR agent, and was immediately thrown in prison, which made both his school bullying and the orphanage look like paradise.

He tells Gabriel about hitting rock bottom, and what happened to him when he finally did: blinding Lucifer and seeking vengeance on everyone in prison who had wronged him, or threatened to wrong him, or even thought about wronging him. He was released from prison months later without an additional sentence despite his violent tendencies because he was letting the warden fuck him on the side.

He tells Gabriel about finding Anna again, and how bruised and broken she was, never speaking about what happened to her while Cas was gone but not needing to. Her eyes told him everything he needed to know. Once bright, pale blue like the first frost of every year, then darkened into the deep pools of despair they are today. She still sang for Cas, though, and they talked each other through their pain, fed each other, protected each other.

He tells Gabriel about his first john, who left him bleeding and broken in an alley, tossing money on top of him and walking away while Cas pulled his pants up and gasped ragged, shaking breaths, willing his legs to work. He eventually started being able to tell the good johns from the bad ones, the high-rollers from the scammers. He sucked and fucked and screamed and cried his way through survival because that's all he could do to keep food in their mouths, to keep living for at least one more day.

Finally, he tells Gabriel about when he first met Dick Roman.

Dick drove up to Cas's favorite street corner in a car that cost more than all the houses in the city put together. He rolled down his window and Cas leaned into it.

Cas never initiated his transactions with words. He let his body language do the talking and he only spoke when he knew he wouldn't get in trouble for it.

Cas's first clue that Dick was a dick was that he _inspected_ Cas when they first met. He examined the contours of Cas's face with his eyes, only making contact with them when he decided he liked what he saw.

"How much?" he asked.

Cas looked at the car and the suit Dick was wearing, and quoted him a price twice what he usually asked.

Dick was attractive, no doubt. But Cas didn't mind the ugly dudes or the fat ones. At first, he preferred attractive men over the others, gave them a discount, but then he learned that the hot ones were the craziest. They were the ones who asked for the kinky shit and weren't willing to pay more for it. They were the ones who would leave Cas high and dry and not look back.

Castiel needed the money, but he needed his safety more, so he asked an outrageous price that would make whatever Dick had in mind worth it.

After that first night – which was by Cas's standards pretty vanilla – Dick kept coming back for more. They rarely spoke, but when they did, Cas noticed he had a strange accent, and he finally got the courage to ask Dick where he was from.

"The United States," he said, and then promptly shut Cas up with a kiss.

Over the months, Cas slowly got more and more information out of him. He had grown to like this john, and was always relieved when that expensive car would turn the corner, because it meant that he could earn a whole week's worth of money in one night. Cas learned that Dick had just graduated high school and was taking a gap year with his father, who had been estranged for most of his life, in mother Russia.

One night, Dick didn't want to fuck in the back of his car. He wanted a bed in a hotel, so they got one, but Dick didn't want to have sex, he just wanted to be held. He'd gotten into a fight with his father, he said. He didn't feel good. He needed someone to talk to. So Cas listened to Dick's broken Russian for hours on end, and held him, and they fell asleep.

Everything was different after that. Dick started showing genuine affection toward Cas, bringing him gifts, smiling more often, making an effort to improve his Russian.

Finally, he asked if Cas would come back with him to the US.

"Only if Anna can come," Cas told him.

Dick shook his head. "Only you."

"I'm sorry, Dick. I can't leave Anna. She's the only family I have."

Dick lost it. He screamed at Cas that _he_ was Cas's only family, and that they were soul mates and meant to be together, that they had both seen the darkness of the world and they were meant to face that darkness together, hand in hand.

It was the first time Dick hit Cas.

Cas ran. He took Anna and they went to another city. But Dick found him, and begged Cas to live with him in the US. He promised Cas riches beyond his wildest dreams, a college education, cars, clothes, anything he wanted.

But Cas didn't listen.

That is, until Dick told him what he wanted to hear. "Please, Cas. _Please_. I can't take Anna, but... I can make sure she has a good life while she's here. I'll buy her a house. We'll find her a job, or not, if she doesn't want one. Whatever she wants. She just can't come with us."

Anna fought Cas on it, saying their life was fine the way it was, and it didn't matter how much money Dick gave them. She didn't want Cas to leave.

So he made the hardest decision of his life. "You'll be protected. You'll have money. You can be free, Anna." He held her hands in his own and stared into her dark eyes, filled with nothing but tears and tragedy. "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her on the temple before walking away and never looking back.

Castiel did not consider the fine print. He did not think about the practicality of the situation, that in order to ensure their arrangement continued and Cas didn't fly off, people would be monitoring Anna, and Dick would hold them both captive.

It was okay, at first. Dick worshipped the ground Cas walked on. Then, Dick discarded Cas like a toy he got tired of playing with, beat him, raped him, threatened to not only cut off Anna's funding but also kill her too if Cas didn't behave exactly how Dick wanted him to.

Cas was, is, and always will be Dick Roman's possession, a puppet on tight strings, a dog on a leash, a toy to be played with.

He is no longer a person.

He is a thing.

Castiel finishes his story and can't see Gabriel's expression.

Gabe doesn't respond, but considering how rare that is – no snappy comeback, no endless rambling – Cas hopes it means he got his message across, that he's not a spoiled brat, that every single thing he has done is for the sake of their sister.

They drive the rest of the way in silence.

***

When they arrive at City Hall, it's completely empty. Given that they're in the center of Chicago, Castiel assumes this has something to do with Dick's wallet.

Cas is facing Dick, in front of a sleazy-looking judge named Zachariah, whom Castiel is also assuming Dick paid because Cas is handcuffed to a post.

Dick looks worse than Cas does. Both his eyes are blackened across the bridge of his nose and there's a bandage wrapped around his forehead.

But he's still grinning at Cas from ear to ear, and Cas, despite having lived with the man for several years, can't tell if the smile is genuine or maniacal.

It's probably both, because maniacal is the only genuine happiness Dick could ever understand.

The only person in the small room with them besides the judge is Gabriel, who is loudly rolling a piece of hard candy in his mouth and generally driving Cas nuts with his presence.

Just like old times.

"You ready, babe?" Dick asks.

Castiel sighs. He's as ready as he'll ever be, and it's not like he has a choice in the matter anyway, given that he can only move a few feet in any direction. "I guess."

"So we're good?" Zachariah asks.

"Yep," Dick replies, and beams.

The speech the judge gives is short, and it ends with, "If anyone has any legal objections to this marriage, please speak now or forever hold your peace."

At that moment, a heavy boot kicks down the door.

"Yeah, I  _fucking do!_ " Dean Winchester yells, storming into the room, followed by Charlie at his heels, and John Winchester, who has Michael in an arm lock with a gun pointed at his head.


	17. Chapter 8: Dean, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want you to know that I'm posting this _before work. Before I've had my coffee._
> 
> That's how much I love you all. I just want you to know that.
> 
> Bless Michaela Grey and her mad beta-ing skillz.

"Who the fuck is Boris Romanov?" Dean asks Charlie.

John walks over and looks at the note.

Charlie's eyes narrow in concentration at her laptop as they scan the screen back and forth. "I'm looking it up."

Dean and John hover behind her, reading the search results also.

"I'm only finding articles about some Rasputin fucker who, since the eighties, has been reported to have been murdered countless times and then come back, only to go on ridiculous, murderous rampages," Charlie summarizes, then clicks another link and adds, "Oh, and he's the head of the Russian mafia."

Dean sits down on the bed and rubs a hand over his face. "Shit."

"We're dealing with the _fucking mafia_?" John asks.

"Looks like it," Charlie replies.

After a few moments of silence except for the clicking sounds of Charlie's laptop, she says, "I found this site about Russian conspiracy theories. Google Translate sucks balls so I can't understand a lot of it, but there's a picture of this guy, like a senior picture from the seventies, and it says B. Romanov under it, then there's an American newspaper with a fuzzy photo of what looks like that same guy at a ribbon-cutting ceremony." She pauses and scrolls, adding, "Except the guy at the ribbon cutting ceremony is named Dr. Fergus Crowley."

The name sounds familiar to Dean.

Then it clicks with him, something Cas said in passing at the luau, that he would be applying to the Crowley Institute of Medicine in Chicago when he graduated.

"Crowley Institute of Medicine," Dean mumbles absently.

Charlie immediately looks it up, clicks a few more times, and swivels her laptop toward Dean and John.

The high school portrait of B. Romanov is lined up in a window next to a professional photo of Dr. Fergus Crowley.

Decades have passed between the photos, and Romanov is smiling whereas Crowley is smirking almost sarcastically, but it's absolutely possible that they are the same person.

"Oh my god," Charlie says, eyes widening and pushing her laptop off of her to run out of the room.

Dean and John follow her.

She barges across the giant living room and dining room and kitchen, entering an enormous office with an oak desk facing away from a window providing the same view as the rest of the penthouse.

Charlie ducks behind the desk and opens a drawer, rifling through the papers, and pulls out an envelope. She rips it open and unfolds the contents.

"What's this?" Dean asks.

"My paycheck." She sets it on the desk and points to the bottom of it.

Dean peers over her. The check has a signature line at the bottom with the messy, scrawled signature of one Dr. F. Crowley.

"But what about this?" Dean points to the top corner of the check, which reads _Roman Industries_ and has an address located in downtown Chicago.

John nods and says, "Twenty bucks says Dick is forcing them to get married in Chicago. Illinois just legalized gay marriage."

Dean and Charlie stare at him.

"What? I read the news."

There's a knock at the open door of the office.

Dean, John, and Charlie turn around to see a dude in a leather jacket, black hair slicked back and a cigarette lolling out of his mouth. There's a truly disgusting scar the width of a dime spanning across his throat.

What registers to Dean most, though, is the man's eyes, which are identical to the set of eyes Dean has been daydreaming about for the last two weeks nonstop, the eyes he has seen filled with tears and etched in pain, set in fury and dark with lust.

Cas told Dean his whole family died, but there is no way in hell this man in front of them could be anything but a Krushnic.

"Fucking A," Charlie groans. "I forgot about the security system."

The corners of Krushnic's lips twitch up, and he pulls a gun out of a holster in his jacket.

Before he can completely straighten his arm to point it at them, John, at an astonishing speed, steps forward and to the side, grabbing Krushnic's wrist and pulling him, spinning him so that he crashes face first into the wall.

"Run!" John yells.

Dean and Charlie run out of the room toward the exit, but Dean hesitates, grabbing up a chair and waiting by the door.

Inside the room, John makes a run for it while Krushnic is dazed, but he gains his footing and runs after John, raising his gun again.

The moment Krushnic steps out of the room, Dean lifts the chair up over his head and slams it down over his back.

He falls to the ground, unconscious, gun thrown from his hand.

John picks the gun up and shouts, "Let's go!"

The three of them run out of the penthouse and down to the Impala. Dean gets in the driver's seat with Charlie next to him and John behind him. "Where are we going?" Dean asks, frantic.

"Chicago!" Charlie yells.

"Are we really taking a chance on that?" Dean asks, speeding toward the highway anyway, tires squealing around every turn.

"What other ideas do you have?" Charlie replies, setting her wifi hotspot and opening her laptop.

The answer to that question is _none_. Dean has no ideas, no thoughts racing through his mind except the terrifying blue eyes of whoever the hell he just knocked unconscious. "What are you looking up now?"

"Places to get married in Chicago. And great fucking news! There are like a million. Finding the Roman/Krushnic wedding will be like finding a needle in a fucking haystack. Or, more accurately, Dick in a bag of dicks."

They're silent while Dean speeds toward I-70 West, the only sound in the car the frustrated sighs of Charlie's research.

"Dad?" Dean asks, staring into the rearview mirror.

"Yeah, son?"

"You should probably call Sammy and let him know we're on a day trip."

***

The car remains tense and silent while pushing twenty over the speed limit down I-70. About an hour in, they're close to hitting Indiana when Dean spots a white, 1970 Buick GSX in the rearview mirror.

It's still far in the distance, but Dean could tell that beautiful piece of art from a hundred miles away if he had to.

Then Dean realizes the car is barreling toward them very, very quickly.

When the car gets close enough, all Dean can see in the rearview mirror are those crazed blue eyes, set in blind fury above a lit cigarette dangling between a lips set in a hideous scowl.

"Shit. Guys, we got company," Dean says.

John turns around right as Krushnic slams into the rear of Dean's Impala.

"Holy shit!" John screams, thrown against Dean's seat. He sits back and frantically puts his seatbelt on.

"You've got to be fucking _kidding me!_ " Charlie shouts.

"Fuck!" Dean yells. "Nuh uh, you can _not_ hurt my baby!"

Dean speeds ahead. Thankfully, the road is empty.

Krushnic speeds up too, and crosses over to pull up next to Dean. With a sneer on his face, he rams the Impala in the side, making Dean swerve.

Krushnic does it again, but Dean surges forward, pressing the Impala to her max, trying to leave the GSX in the dust.

But Krushnic holds true and keeps up with them, pushing them to the side so that Dean has to swerve and compensate repeatedly. He can hear the siding scrape against his baby and grits his teeth when he visualizes the damage.

There's a semi up ahead and Dean gets enough of a vantage that he crosses in front of the GSX and they speed past the semi. Krushnic barrels into the back of the Impala again, sending the three of them against their seatbelts and cursing.

He pulls up next to them again, to Dean's right, and rolls down his window. Keeping an eye on the road ahead and on Dean, Krushnic pulls out a gun and points it at the Impala.

"Charlie, watch out!" John screams.

Dean grabs Charlie's head and shoves it into his lap. Muffled, she yells, "If it weren't a _totally_ bad time, I would be making a joke about my sexuality!"

"Can it, Charlie!" Dean yells. "Dad, what the fuck do I do?"

"How the fuck should I know, Dean? We're still alive, so whatever the hell you're doing, keep it up!"

Krushnic shoots a round into the hood of the Impala and Dean pats his dashboard, brows furrowed in terror. "Oh god, I'm so sorry, baby."

From the rearview mirror, Dean can see John unbuckle his seatbelt and roll down his window.

"Dad, what are you doing?!" Dean shouts.

John yells, "Drive straight!" and climbs out the window, positioning himself to sit on the edge, pointing the gun he took from Krushnic at the GSX and shooting off two rounds into it.

Krushnic swerves, running into the side of the Impala again, and John almost falls out. "Hold on, Dad!"

"I'm fucking _trying_ , son!"

Krushnic shoots off two more rounds into the Impala. A bullet shatters the passenger window and embeds itself into Dean's headrest. _"MOTHERFUCKER,”_ he screams.

"Dean! Slow down!" John yells.

Dean takes his foot off the gas just a fraction so that momentarily, the GSX darts ahead of them.

John takes the opportunity to aim, and fires off another round toward it.

The bullet hits the driver's side back tire and the GSX goes swerving across the road. Dean has to skid to a halt, spinning violently into a grassy field to avoid hitting it head-on. In the turn, John gets bucked from the Impala and lands hard in the grass, rolling down a hill.

When the Impala stops, Dean and Charlie unbuckle their seatbelts and run to him.

John is on his back, face up on the grass, staring into the sky, breath ragged.

"Dad! Are you okay?" Dean kneels down next to his father, hands hovering above him, not knowing what to do.

A wicked grin spreads across John's face and he looks at Dean. "That was _FUCKING AWESOME!"_

Dean gasps a sigh of relief, clutching his chest and shaking.

Finally, Dean stands and holds out his hand for John to take. John takes it and stands too, brushing the grass off of himself before storming over to the GSX.

Dean and Charlie follow. The GSX is in the grass between 70 East and West, facing south. John levels his gun to the driver's side as they approach.

Krushnic is unconscious, mouth open, bleeding from the forehead.

"Is he dead?" Charlie asks quietly.

John opens the driver's side door and catches Krushnic when he falls out of it. He leans in to unclasp his seatbelt, drags him out of the GSX, and drops him in the grass, gun at his head.

Dean kneels by him, checking his pulse. He looks up at Charlie. "Still alive. Just unconscious. Again."

"Good," John says. "Let's bring him with us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS I felt like writing smut, so here, go have some filthy, gratuitous smut (even though most of you have already read it which does funny, wonderful things to my heart): ["Words with Friends"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1790776/chapters/3838738)


	18. Chapter 8: Dean, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to make a witty, snarky comment about this chapter, but I decided it would be best to let the chapter speak for itself this time.
> 
> *Sits back, hands behind head, waiting casually for imminent death*
> 
> (Thank you for the quick turn-around, Michaela. <3)

An hour later, Krushnic regains consciousness.

They're speeding toward Chicago, and John has his gun trained at Krushnic's temple. He chuckles, and says, "Look who decided to join us."

Krushnic sneers at him.

Dean glares in the rearview and asks, gruff, "Where's the wedding?"

The Russian shrugs and looks out the window.

"Don't give us that bullshit," John tells him. "Tell us where Cas is."

Rolling his eyes, Krushnic points to his neck.

"Dean, you got a napkin in here or anything?" John asks.

Dean rifles through the glove compartment and procures a napkin and pen. John grabs it from him and hands it to Krushnic. "Write it down."

He scrawls something and hands it back to John.

"Pam-ee-wah shee-ka-goo? What the hell is that?" John asks, eyebrow raised.

Krushnic drops his head against the back of the seat and sighs, forcefully grabbing the napkin back from John.

He writes another word and hands it back. "Oh," John says. "Pam-ee-wah is Russian, apparently. And I think shee-ka-goo means 'Chicago.'"

Krushnic nods, sardonic, and lifts his eyebrows.

Pulling out her phone, Charlie says, "I have an app for that."

John hands her the napkin and Dean can see the words _"Pатуша,"_ "ShIKahGoo," and "RuSSIan," but the 'R' in _Russian_ is backwards.

Charlie takes a picture of it and clicks a few buttons. "It means 'City Hall.'" She sets the napkin down and goes back to her laptop, typing furiously, wind from the broken passenger window making her hair fly in all directions while she repeatedly tames it down and out of her face.

"What are you doing now?" Dean asks.

"Hacking into the security feeds and looping some downtime so that they don't see us come in."

"Whoa," John replies. "That's genius."

"Thanks," Charlie says with a genuine grin.

Dean takes a deep breath, staring at the approaching skyline of Chicago in the distance, wondering what the hell is in store for them the rest of this insane day.

***

Dean parks the Impala in front of City Hall and starts to get out of the car.

"Uhh, son?" John asks from the backseat.

Dean cranes his neck around to look at his father. "Yeah, Dad?"

"Just a thought, and I could be wrong, but... not sure it's really a good idea to barge into City Hall with a hostage."

"Oh. Right." Dean leans back in his seat, tapping the steering wheel with his fingers.

The three of them sit in contemplation while Krushnic laughs silently at them.

Gasping, Charlie says, "I got an idea. Dean, go in and do some recon, see what it's like in there, and if there's any way we can get to the, uhh, wedding ceremony room place, without being detected."

"You got it." Dean gets out of the Impala and runs up the steps to City Hall.

The sign on the door says _Closed_.

Dean checks his watch.

It's two o'clock in the afternoon.

He tries the door, and it's unlocked. The only person inside is a security guard asleep at his desk, snoring soundly. Dean steps away from the door and does a wide hand gesture toward the car for the three of them to come in.

John shoves Krushnic out of the car first and follows after him, immediately putting him in an arm lock and hiding the gun at his back.

When they get to the door, Charlie looks around and says, "Well this is a bit too convenient." Then she gets out her phone and adds, "Hang on, let me start the security camera loop. Once I press play, we run in, look for Cas, and then we have to get out in ten minutes, got it?"

John and Dean nod in understanding, and John whispers to Krushnic, "When we get in there, don't scream for help," then laughs at his own joke until he snorts.

"Jesus, Dad," Dean tells him.

Krushnic looks at Charlie, holds up the hand not locked behind his back, and with two fingers, mimes shooting himself in the head.

"I know," Charlie consoles him. "Dad humor is awful."

The three of them quietly enter and walk slowly around the guard until they reach a door with a black sign in front of it and crooked white letters that read _Roman/Krushnic Ceremony, 2 pm_.

"Also convenient," Charlie whispers.

Dean reaches his hand toward the doorknob, and Charlie smacks it away. In a sharp whisper, she says, "Dean Winchester, this might be the only time in your life you get the opportunity to dramatically interrupt a wedding. There is no way you're going to walk in there like it's a goddamn bathroom stall. You kick down that door when the judge says 'or forever hold your peace,' or so help me God..."

He turns around to look at John and Krushnic. John shrugs and whispers, "Go big or go home, right?"

Even the goddamn Russian hostage nods in agreement.

"Okay, okay, _Christ_." Dean rolls his eyes and takes a step back, listening in on the judge's vows.

_"If anyone has any legal objections to this marriage, please speak now or forever hold your peace."_

"It's go time." Dean takes a deep breath, lifts up his boot, and stomp-kicks the door in. The frame splinters and the door flies open, slamming against the back wall of the room. "Yeah, I _fucking do!"_

Dean storms in and down the aisle, John, Charlie, and Krushnic at his heels. He stares at Cas and forces down the utterly inappropriate thoughts of how fucking _hot_ Cas looks in a tuxedo, opting instead to notice Cas's hand, which is cuffed to a post.

Then he looks to Dick Roman, whose face – _wow_ – Cas _really_ fucked up. Dick is smiling maniacally, a low rumble of laughter in his chest.

"Legal objections?" Dean shouts at the judge and Dick, gesturing to Cas. "He's handcuffed to a fucking post!"

The judge shrugs.

"C'mon, man! You're supposed to be under oath!"

Leaning into the microphone, the judge says, "I have two daughters about to go to college, and this wedding will end up paying for both of them. I really don't care who's handcuffed to what at this point."

Dean storms forward toward the judge to beat the shit out of him, but a snarky dude in a leather jacket and a piece of hard candy rattling in his mouth steps in front of Dean and says, "Whoa there, cowboy. No rabid dogs beyond this point, I'm afraid."

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean asks.

"Me?" the man asks, pointing to himself. "I'm the employee of the terrifying, tall guy over there..." He points to Dick Roman. "...the older, wiser, and infinitely more handsome brother of that brat over there..." He points to Castiel. "...and the younger brother of the angry, off-the-clock mime over there."He points to Michael. "And I only give half a flying fuck about half the people in this room, so you best step back because that adds up to the impressive amount of one-point-five flying fucks." He drops his smile and leans in, whispering, "And you don't want to see me when I'm angry, cowboy."

Dean gapes at Gabriel, then looks at Michael who grins at him mischievously, waving at him with his free hand, then up to Castiel. "What the fuck, Cas? Your brothers are alive?"

Cas shrugs, palms up, confused and exasperated. "I have no fucking clue, Dean. It's been a hell of a day."

"No kidding," Dean pauses, looking around and assessing the truly fucked up situation he's in. "Don't worry, baby, we're gonna get you outta here. I promise." He sneers at Gabriel and swipes his hand away, walking past him and toward Cas.

Gabe makes a fist and takes a deep breath, but steps back and looks at Cas, face softening.

"That's what I thought," Dean says, glaring at him. 

After – as Cas so eloquently put it – one hell of a day, Dean finally reaches Cas and grabs his free hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. "You okay?" he asks softly.

Cas grins at him in utter fucking delight. "I am now."

"I was so fucking worried about you." Dean reaches up and wraps his arms around Cas, hugging him.

Cas hugs back, squeezing tightly. After several moments, he whispers in Dean's ear, "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, love, but we're not in the clear just yet. There are still two trained assassins in the room with us, and one raging, excessively violent, soon-to-be-ex-fiancée standing behind you."

 "Right." Dean swallows and pulls away.

Cas's eyes widen, focusing on something behind Dean, and shouts, "Dean!"

Suddenly, there's a strong arm wrapped around his throat and dragging him backward. Dean fights at Dick's elbow, trying to get him to release his grip, but Dick holds tight. Gasping for breath and trying to regain his balance, Dean feels the sharp point of a knife at his back. His breath hitches and he freezes immediately.

 _"Dean!"_ John shouts. From his blurred peripheral vision, Dean sees John lunge forward, bringing his gun to level at Dick's head. Michael takes the opportunity to slip out of his arm lock, twisting underneath John's grip, and placing John in the exact same lock he was just in, wrenching John's arm behind his back until he yelps. Then he pulls out another gun from its holster under his jacket and presses it to John's temple.

Charlie turns around, red hair flying, arms crossing over her torso and into her hoodie, and pulls out two huge handguns, pointing one at Michael and one at Dick. "FBI!" she shouts, _"EVERYBODY FREEZE!"_

Cas gapes at Charlie, and yells, "What the _fuck_ , Charlie!"

Were Dean not being presently choked by a psychopath, he would have had something similar to say about the situation.

Charlie shrugs innocently, keeping a sharp eye on Dick, John, and Michael. "Undercover op is up, fellas. Dick Roman, you are under arrest for–"

Dick lets out an ear-splitting, agonized shriek.

Dean's heart pounds in his chest as his mind races to figure out how they can all get out of this situation without dying. Cas is handcuffed to a post. Dick is slowly choking Dean to death and has a knife pressing dangerously into his spine. John has a gun leveled at Dick's head. Michael – Russian assassin and not-dead brother of Cas – has a gun leveled at John's head. Charlie – undercover FBI agent – has a gun leveled at both Michael's and John's heads.

It's some kind of fucked-up Mexican stand-off.

 _Russian stand-off_ , Dean corrects.

The sleazy judge is staring at them, wide-eyed and totally useless.

And Gabe – also a Russian assassin and not-dead brother of Cas – is standing next to Michael casually, still obnoxiously rolling around a piece of hard candy in his mouth, being as totally useless as the judge.

_Jesus fucking Christ._

Dick falls to his knees, taking Dean down with him. The knife presses into Dean's back further and pierces the skin, making Dean grimace as a trail of warm blood trickles down his back. Dick lets out a sob and says, "Cas, why are you _doing_ this to me?"

"Why am I doing this to you, Dick? Really?" Cas asks, straining to remain calm.

Without knowing _how_ he knows, Dean is sure Cas would be willing to dislocate his thumb to get out of his cuffs if he didn't think Dick would be able to stab Dean before he could get to him.

"Because, _Dick_ , you treat me like shit!" He points to his face. "Look at what you do to me! You beat me. You rape me. You threaten to kill my sister if I don't do everything you fucking ask! And maybe this is a bit obvious, but you _physically chained me down so that I would marry you!"_

Dick sobs harder, shaking his head, and says softly, "It wasn't always like this, Cas. You _know_ it wasn't." He looks up, tears rolling down his cheeks. "In Russia, remember? You used to look at me like I _mattered_. You looked at me like _I_ was your hero, not this..." He shakes Dean for emphasis. "Neanderthal.

"I did _everything_ for you, Cas. I saw you there, huddled on that street corner and I picked you up. You were so sad, and so thin. I _paid_ you. I _fed_ you. I gave you a _home_."

"You took me away from Anna," Cas says through clenched teeth and forced, even breaths.

"I couldn't bring her with us, Cas! I just couldn't! But I did the next best thing, didn't I? She lives like a fucking queen in Russia!" Dick rests his head on the back of Dean's shoulder and sobs.

"Are you serious, Dick?" Cas asks, incredulous. _"You threaten to kill her every fucking day!"_

"What else can I do, Cas?" Dick asks, frantic."How else can I keep you? I _need_ you, Cas. And I needed you to need me too. How else was I going to do that? How else was I going to keep you in my life? I love you, Cas. From the moment I met you, I loved you, and nothing has changed from that moment. You're the light of my life. My soul mate. But you don't give a _shit_ about me!

"Don't you see, Cas? We're the same. We've always been the same."

Cas clenches his jaw, dark fire in his eyes, and says quietly, "No, we're not."

"Yes, we are," Dick continues, voice cracking. "Your family orphaned you by tragedy. My family orphaned me by apathy. We both have the darkness, Cas. We're both diseased, right down to our cores. I thought... I thought finding that in common with someone would make us whole, these two broken people coming together to support each other, but every day, Cas, every day you look at me like you are this high and mighty angel, like you're so much better than me. You had to sell your body for pennies. You watched your family die. You were imprisoned, and beaten, and starved. But you know what, Cas? You're not better than me. You don't lift a finger for anyone but your own blood. We dragged each other out of hell and you pretended you got to ascend to heaven, looking down on the rest of us. You wallow in your victimhood, Cas. You _treasure_ it. Because it's all you've got."

Mouth open, Cas blinks, and doesn't respond.

Dick pauses and takes a deep breath, slowly standing from his kneeling position and bringing Dean up with him. Voice steady and quiet, knife pressed roughly against Dean's back, Dick concludes, "I don't think you realize, Castiel, that when you treat a man like he's a monster for long enough..." Dick shoves the knife into Dean's back, and Dean gasps. _"...he becomes one."_

Shoving him forward, Dean lands on his knees, and hears rapid gunfire in the distance, intermingled with his heart beating loudly in his ears.

It doesn't hurt, somehow. It feels like the time Dean got his ear pierced when he was thirteen. It hurt for a second, but after that, it just felt like this _wrongness_ in him, that there was something in his body that shouldn't be there.

When John saw the piercing, he made Dean take it out.

When Dean fell off his bike when he was seven years old, John sat him on top of the counter and dabbed iodine on his scraped up knee, then bandaged it up. He held Dean in his lap on his recliner the rest of the night, and they watched movies and ate popcorn together, until Dean fell asleep and woke up the next morning in his bed.

John Winchester has fixed many of Dean's wounds, but he can't fix this one. He can't fix this wrongness.

Dean falls to his side and gasps for breath, blinking his eyes slowly, unseeing except for a bright light and blurred shapes all around him.

Unexpectedly, Dean's whole life does not flash before his eyes.

Just one moment: one moment he forgot about until now, laying on the floor of Chicago City Hall and bleeding, breathing ragged and slow.

It was raining on a Saturday morning in early summer, and Dean was ten years old. Sammy was six. Dean's baseball practice had gotten canceled, so he stayed home and they colored in Sam's favorite _Beauty and the Beast_ coloring book while watching the accompanying film.

Sam loved it so much, the VHS tape was wearing out in parts, "Be Our Guest" warping halfway through.

Dean was coloring Belle on the right-side of the book while Sammy colored in Beast on the left. Dean tried to get him to color in the lines, reminding him that all his crayon strokes should go in the same direction, and that he should use the colors from the movie. But Sam didn't really care. He wanted Beast to be periwinkle and goldenrod, so Beast was periwinkle and goldenrod.

Below the picture of Beast, Sam had written his first complete sentence without anyone else's help:

_Who could ever love a beast?_

He gave it to Dean, and Dean folded it up and put it in his wallet, transferring it to every new wallet he'd gotten since, and it's still there to this day, eleven years later, stuffed in the brown leather tri-fold in his back right jeans pocket.

When the credits rolled – that part of the tape also badly warped – John finally woke up and poured himself a cup of coffee. He sat down on the couch and picked up the newspaper, asking Dean absently, "Why aren't you at practice?"

Dean answered, edge to his voice, "Uh, it's raining."

John looked up from his newspaper. "So?"

"So..." Dean concluded, "It's too muddy."

The corner of John's mouth twitched up. "Well, for baseball, yeah. But listen." He pointed at the ceiling, cocking his head to the side.

Dean and Sam listened intently to the incessant pitter-patter of heavy rainfall on their rooftop.

"Yeah, Dad, I know. It's raining," Dean said.

"No thunder!" Sammy shouted, clapping. "No lightning!"

"Atta boy!" John rubbed his hand in Sammy's hair. "Let's go!" He stood and scooped Sam up off the ground, flying him into the air as he opened the front door and ran out, barefoot, Sammy howling with laughter over his head as rain pelted down on them.

Dean stood outside under the awning. "What are you doing?"

"Playing in the rain!" Sam screamed excitedly as John set him down in a puddle, jumping and sloshing and splashing.

"Playing in the rain!" John confirmed, jumping in the puddle too and splashing Sam all over with water.

"You guys are crazy," Dean told them, shaking his head.

Sam giggled. "C'mon, Dean!"

"Yeah, Dean! C'mon!" John took Sam's hands in his own and they danced and stomped in the puddle.

Reluctantly, Dean stepped out from under the awning.

Being pelted with rain was... unpleasant.

It became even more unpleasant when John picked up a handful of mud and threw it at Dean, cackling. It landed on his shoulder, pushing him backward, until Dean fell on his butt in another big mud puddle.

Sam and John shrieked with laughter.

Dean was furious. He picked up a handful of mud and chucked it back at John, hitting him square in the face.

John froze.

Dean's eyes widened and he panicked briefly, until John shucked the mud out of his eyes and mashed it in Sam's hair, giggling like a little kid.

So it went the rest of the morning that the Winchesters played in the summer rain, until eventually the sun came back out to introduce a big, beautiful rainbow. They went back inside and got cleaned up, John fixed them up a can of soup and some toast for lunch, and they all sat on the couch watching _Beauty and the Beast_ yet again, until Dean fell asleep curled up under John's arm.

Dean's heart is no longer throbbing in his ears, and the bright light begins to slowly dissipate.

Finally, everything fades.


	19. Chapter 8: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early (or late? I can't remember my posting schedule anymore) because our narrator is a buffoon who purchased a 100 year old house by herself at the ripe old age of 22 and thus has incredibly poor air circulation in her second story bedroom. 
> 
> Normally I have a good idea of the kind of feedback I'm gonna get, but I genuinely don't know with this chapter. *Throws chapter at you, goes to sleep on the couch where the a/c actually kinda works*

_"...he becomes one."_

With those three words, the poorly constructed pieces of Castiel's life come crashing down.

When Dick shoves the knife in Dean's back, Cas looks into Dean's beautiful, deep, loving green eyes, set in intense pain and confusion. For a blissful moment, they stare at each other one last time, communicating an eternity of love to one another before Dean's eyes lose focus and Cas lets out a blood-curdling, heart-wrenching scream.

There is a brief moment of stunned silence before a rapid sequence of events occur the moment Dean falls to his knees.

John steels his jaw, set in fury, and with a vindictive roar, shoots off a single bullet toward Dick.

Instinctively, Dick reacts, making the fatal mistake of turning his head toward the source of the blast.

The bullet barrels straight into his skull, through the bridge of his nose, and explodes out the back of his head.

He falls to the ground with a thud, eyes staring blindly into oblivion by the time he hits the floor.

Michael puts four pounds of pressure on the five-pound trigger of his gun, shoved against John's right temple.

Charlie, shocked, going against all of her training, hesitates for a split second before squeezing the trigger of the gun pointed at Michael before he can shoot John.

Gabriel, with an immediate-albeit-reluctant decision to not be a total douchebag, shoves Michael, whose gun fires into the ceiling, and who falls into Charlie, wrenching John's arm back and out of its socket.

Charlie's guns go off, shooting into two separate walls, while John wails an agonized shout and drops his gun to grasp his shoulder.

Castiel dislocates his thumb and slips out of his cuffs, shredding the skin of his hand, and kneels by Dean as he slumps over onto his side, oblivious to the dominos collapsing all around him. With shaking hands, Cas steadies him, not wanting to tilt him on his back and not wanting to let him roll forward. Dean's breath is shallow and ragged, and there's a growing pool of blood on the floor soaking into Cas's pants. He sobs and screams Dean's name until it loses all its meaning. He utters it so many times that it becomes just a word, like any other; a trivial concept instead of the god-like man with whom Castiel had fallen in love.

Then, as quickly as it began, it's over.

***

In the waiting room, the four of them – Castiel, Charlie, Michael, and Gabriel – wait impatiently while Dean is in emergency surgery and John is with the ER doctor getting his shoulder examined.

Castiel will never forget the image of Dean being rolled away on a stretcher, covered in blood and unconscious, seizures wracking his body from shock, on his side with the knife still sticking out of his back. As the ambulance drove away, Cas watched as John ran his hand through Dean's hair, muttering consoling words Cas couldn't hear, his other arm limp at his side while EMTs tended to both of them.

Dick Roman followed shortly after, also on a stretcher, but wrapped inside a black body bag, and driven away by the coroner.

They followed in Gabriel's Escalade, a macabre parade of stunned silence except for the wailing siren leading them to the hell of anxious anticipation.

No one has told them yet if Dean is likely to live or die.

Castiel wrings his hands together, covered in dried blood, his own mixed with Dean's, and barely registers the dull, throbbing ache of his tattered skin. Absently, he realizes he can't move his thumb, so he holds it gingerly to the joint, then shoves it back into its socket with a loud popping noise.

He leans back in his seat and Charlie leans back too, resting her head on his shoulder.

Gabriel sits down on the other side of him and rubs his back consolingly. "I'm sorry your boyfriend got stabbed. And not in the fun way. And I'm also sorry for..." He trails off and swallows, unable to finish his thought.

Castiel can't bring himself to care about the sudden, mysterious appearance of his older brothers in his life. He can't bring himself to care that Charlie is apparently an undercover FBI agent. He can't even bring himself to care that Dick is dead, not that he would under different circumstances, but he thinks he should probably be more concerned about how the hell he's going to manage to stay in the US.

 _If_ he's going to stay in the US.

He leans forward and buries his face in his hands.

Castiel finds that he can, however, bring himself to care that his brothers were unable to pull their heads out of their asses for five minutes to realize that their little brother needed them. He needed them for once to not be narrow-minded, shallow imbeciles. He needed them to grow up and realize that Dick was manipulating them and feeding them false information. He needed them to have found a way to reach out to him after the assassination of their family and tell him they were alive, so they could be together, protect each other, help each other.

Cas stands and, in a sudden fit of anger, drags Gabriel up by his shirt, bunching it into his fists. "You. This is your fault."

Charlie stands up to intervene, but Cas stares her down and growls through gritted teeth, "This is your fault too. Your precious undercover operation was more important than my fucking safety. My _sanity_ , Charlie. You watched me get tortured, day in, day out, and you didn't do a goddamn thing."

Charlie intakes a sharp breath and blinks, mouth open. Instead of responding, she turns on her heel and walks away.

Gabe holds his hands up, "Whoa, there, brother. I know you're angry right now, but let's not play the blame game, okay?"

Cas shakes him, searching his face, his own face etched in blind rage. _"This is your fault!_ You abandoned us! You betrayed us! Your own family, Gabe! You let yourself be manipulated by the people who tore our family apart!" He raises his fist to bring down on Gabriel's face, but a strong hand grabs his wrist before it can come down.

Michael spins him around, forcing him to let go of Gabriel, and pushes Cas against a wall, hand to his chest, glowering at him in anger.

Gabe approaches them, apprehensive. "I know things are tense, fellas. But that's no reason to take it out on each other, yeah? We're not kids anymore. We have to stand together."

Cas throws his head back and cackles. "Stand together? _Stand together?!_ Eight hours ago you had a gun pointed at my head!" He fights against Michael to lunge at Gabe, but Michael has him secured against the wall, hands pressed firmly against his chest.

Michael's teeth are clenched together, a scowl of intense rage over his face. He makes a quick movement toward Cas which reminds Cas so much of his childhood of rampant physical abuse that he involuntarily flinches.

When Michael wraps his arms around Cas's shoulders, his automatic reaction is to fight against the restraints and run, but Michael holds him, and buries his face in Castiel's neck, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Cas looks at Gabe, shocked, and says, "What is happening right now."

Gabe strokes his chin. "I don't have a doctorate in mime interpretation – _yet_ – but my guess is that you are receiving a hug."

Cas blinks at Michael's slumped-over shoulders and asks, "Why?"

Michael lets go of Cas and wipes away the tears that are rolling down his cheeks. He sniffs and begins to sign.

"What's he saying?" Cas asks Gabriel.

Gabe sighs. "Something about being a pretty, pretty princess. Or maybe he's reciting Shakespeare. Or both. I don't fucking know."

Michael smacks Gabe upside the back of his head.

"Ow!" Gabe exclaims, rubbing his head. He turns to Cas and sighs. "Michael says that he's –"

Michael glares at Gabe.

"– _we're_ sorry. He says that you're right about everything and that we should work together from now on and fix this situation."

Michael continues signing rapidly.

"Man, I don't want to say that," Gabriel whines.

He narrows his eyes at Gabe.

 _"Fine,"_ Gabe continues. "He wants you to know that you're an inspiration to him, because without you, he would have never found the strength to come out, and there's not a day that passes that he doesn't regret the way he treated you growing up. He was never planning on hurting you, and he never intended to hurt Dean, John, or Charlie, either. They attacked him and were going after you, and it took him a long time to figure out what was actually going on – wow, bro, really giving your whole life story here, aren't you?"

Michael ignores him and keeps signing.

Gabe sighs. "A lot of terrible things have happened to him these past five years too, and it sucks, but he's grown from all of it, and now he's so excited that you're back in our lives. He hopes that you'll forgive us so that we can mend our relationship and go find Anna, and then become reacquainted with each other." Gabriel pauses and breathes in a shuddering breath. "And maybe be a family again."

Tears stream down Michael's face as he finishes his speech.

Gabriel's chin trembles and he looks down at his feet, shuffling them, and shoving Michael at the shoulder, saying, "Goddammit, Michael, you're such a fucking pansy."

Michael shoves him back, then pulls him in for a hug, and then they both pull Cas in to join the hug too.

Cas stands against them, rigid and confused. Michael is gay, and crying, and hugging him, and he appears to have made a complete one-eighty since Castiel last saw him. Gabriel, on the other hand, hasn't changed at all. And now they both want to be a big, happy family.

This is all too fucking much to handle.

"I thought you said you were tracking me for years," Cas says, shaking his head, bewildered.

Gabe and Michael pull away, and Gabe replies with a shrug while wiping his face with the back of his hand, "I lied. Dramatic effect. It's only been, like, two weeks."

Cas pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don't understand. How did you escape the fire? Where have you both been all these years?"

Gabe opens his mouth to answer, but a doctor in teal green scrubs, covered in what Cas assumes is the same blood in which he too is covered, approaches them and asks, "Is one of you Dean Winchester's... partner?"

Cas raises his hand. "That's me, yes."

She nods. "We were able to stop the bleeding, but we had to remove a kidney. We'll be transferring Dean to the ICU soon, and we'll need to keep him under observation, but for the moment, the prognosis is good. I'm not sure how long he'll be unconscious, but you can get his new room number from the information desk and they'll direct you to where you need to go."

Relief hits him like a tidal wave.

Cas lets out a choked sob, clutches his chest, and his knees give out. His brothers catch him by the arms and drag him back up.

Michael circles his arms around Cas's shoulders again and Cas finally leans into him, unable to hold himself up any longer in every meaning of the phrase, and buries his face in his brother's embrace, shaking and sobbing and muttering incoherent thanks in strings of Russian and English.

Gabe pats Cas's back and thanks the doctor, then goes to find out where Dean is located in the ICU.


	20. Chapter 9: Dean, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is super personal for me, like the rest of the themes in this fic. I tried to not make it too gratuitous in terms of dialogue, but no promises.
> 
> I need to buy Michaela Grey that t-shirt.

The next forty-eight hours of Dean's life fall somewhere between dreaming and reality. He is mildly aware of people coming in and out of what he assumes is his bedroom, but with more beeping noises and pain.

One moment, he's laying on a beach talking to Cas. The next, he hears his father's voice quietly telling him it'll be okay. One moment, he's watching a Reds game with his dad. The next, Cas is combing his fingers through Dean's hair and sighing.

At one point, there are a series of moments that are beneath reality but above dreaming, and Dean becomes aware of a presence by his bed.

He opens his eyes sleepily. A doctor in a white coat, a black dress shirt, and a dark red tie examines the chart at the bottom of his bed, making obnoxious clicking noises with his mouth. His hairline is receding  and there's a bald spot on the crown of his head. He has more stubble than would be considered a five o'clock shadow, but less than a beard. He's in his forties or fifties, with a stocky build, and he's shorter than average.

He looks vaguely familiar, but Dean can't remember why.

Then it slowly dawns on him, as the man lifts his hand and scratches his beard.

Dean thought he would be... taller.

"Boris," he mumbles, unable to control his jaw completely, slack with exhaustion and pain meds.

The doctor looks up from the chart, bewildered. "Excuse me?"

"Ruh-muh-muh," he mumbles again, trying desperately to shape the word _Romanov_.

The man chuckles. It sounds happy, but there's an unnecessarily sharp undertone to it. "No Ruh-muh-muhs here, Dean."

"Who you?" Dean manages to ask.

The man looks back down at his chart, then walks over to talk to one of the noisy pain machines, examining it, and answers, "I'm Dr. Crowley. I'll only be with you for this shift."

Dean huffs a laugh, unable to do anything more. "Nuh uh." He shakes his head. "Ruh-muh-muh."

Crowley sighs and stops looking at the noisy pain machine to sit down next to him on the bed. He looks at Dean with a curious, concerned expression common among doctors. "Boris Romanov is a fairy tale, Dean."

Dean shakes his head harder. He _knows_ that Dr. Crowley is Boris Romanov. He can tell because Crowley speaks with a British accent but he slips in the same way Cas does when he's not paying attention; he says _ees_ instead of _is_.

Crowley places his hand on top of Dean's and strokes his fingers gently.

If Dean could shudder without shifting his spine and causing him an agonizing amount of pain, he would.

Crowley stares at him for a long moment, and says quietly, "You should know, Dean, that even though Boris Romanov does not exist, the fear of him still does."

Dean blinks slowly while the noisy pain machine beeps faster and faster.

Crowley lifts his hand and hovers it an inch above Dean's abdomen, right above where his kidney used to be.

Dean doesn't know why the pain machine is screaming at him now, but it hurts his ears. His muscles tense from everything going on and it hurts his back and stomach, which just makes the machine beep louder and make everything worse. He wants to flinch, wants to roll away from the hand innocently hovering over his stomach, but he can't move. He's trapped in a spiral of his body and mind fighting against him and the machines around him causing him to writhe which causes pain and then his body and mind are fighting against him again. He can't breathe. This is torture. If it doesn't stop soon, he's going to explode.

Finally, Crowley moves his hand away and rests it back in his lap.

Dean groans a sigh of relief, and the beeping slows down.

Looking Dean in the eye, Crowley pauses and smirks, concluding, "And fear, Dean, can be incredibly powerful."

***

When Dean finally crosses the threshold back into reality, it's daytime again. He rolls his head over and slowly blinks his eyes open to a blurry image of his father resting with his face in his hands.

"Dad?" Dean slurs.

John looks up, becoming clearer by the second. "Dean!" He grins and grabs Dean's hand resting on the bed. "That's my boy. I knew you'd make it. I knew it. How're you feeling?"

"Like a million fucking bucks," Dean groans, the slow realization of how much pain he's in finally seeping into his skin and settling into his bones.

"They gave you this cool thing where you can press a button and get pain meds, though." John picks it up from Dean's bed and shows him the keypad with an up arrow and a down arrow.

Dean grabs it from him and presses the up arrow until he can't anymore, then breathes a sigh of relief as the edges of the room become less sharp.

He finally looks over at his father and sees that his arm is in a sling. Suddenly everything comes rushing back and Dean asks, frantic, "What happened to your arm? Where's Cas? Is he okay? What happened to Dick? How long have I been out?"

John shushes him and says, "I'm fine. Cas is fine. Don't worry."

"And Dick? Is he in jail? Where's Cas? What happened to your arm?"

John looks down, brow creased in worry. "Dick didn't make it," he mumbles. Then, louder, he adds, "One thing at a time, son. Cas is finally asleep in the waiting room, I think. The guy has barely spent two minutes away from you since we got here. We've been here almost two days. And the Russian dude accidentally messed up my arm, but it's not like it wasn't already fucked up to begin with."

"Which Russian dude?" Dean asks.

"The scary one."

Dean pauses. "Which one?"

"The scari _est_ one," John replies, taking one hand and miming a slit across his throat.

The heart monitor beeps faster.

"It's okay, Dean," John reassures him, reaching up and rubbing his shoulder. "I'll explain everything soon. Just rest. Everything is okay."

Dean takes a deep breath and rests his head against the pillows, squeezing his eyes shut. "Dad?"

"Yeah, son?"

Now, pumped up with morphine and lacking total foresight, is as good a time as any to bring up what's on Dean's mind. He clenches his jaw and swallows. "I don't want to play baseball anymore."

Unexpectedly, John chuckles. "That's okay. You don't have to."

Dean opens his eyes in surprise and stares at him. "Really?"

"Nah." John rubs his face with his hand and looks away, steeling his expression against his thoughts with a grimace. "Look, Dean..." he begins, and takes a deep breath, finally resting his eyes back on Dean. "I'm sorry. For everything. While you were out, I had a chance to talk to Cas about some things. And Charlie. And the scary Russian dudes. I get it now. And I'm sorry I didn't get it before. Castiel is a good man. Strange, you know, but good."

Dean looks away from him and closes his eyes again.

"You're not gonna forgive me?" John asks.

"Why should I?" Dean responds quietly, thinking back to the thousands of little moments of his life he was oppressed by the man currently seeking his forgiveness.

"Because I'm your old man," John says, hurt.

Dean sighs. "Yeah, well, you've never really acted like it."

Shaking his head, John replies, "What do you expect, Dean? Do you know how old I was when your mom got pregnant with you? Your age. Can you imagine having a kid at your age? It's fucking terrifying. One moment you're a kid and then the next moment, you _have_ a kid, and he looks at you like you hold all the fucking answers and you just don't, man. You don't. You've held me up on this impossible pedestal your whole fucking life, and you expect me to be this perfect, whole, unbreakable person. And I'm not. And I've never claimed to be. I roll with the punches just like everyone else."

Dean guarantees his face is still sore and bruised from the right hook he took the night prior. "And you deal 'em out, too."

"Aw, c'mon, Dean." John sits back in his chair, exasperated. "When have I ever laid a finger on you? Or your brother? Never. Not a single time until yesterday."

"Says the guy who called me a fucking fairy faggot."

"What do you fucking expect?" John shouts. "You keep this entire identity of yours hidden from me your whole damn life and then I come home to find you in bed with a dude who looks like he just went ten rounds with a hockey stick, and then you expect me not to freak the fuck out about it? I grew up in a different time, man, and I know these... perspectives are ugly, but in the grand scheme of things, no one started questioning them until pretty damn recently. But I would have, Dean. I would have questioned them earlier if you'd given me the chance to. If you'd just owned up to it, owned up to yourself, owned up to the fact that you're... you're gay. If you had just told me–"

"You what?" Dean interrupts. "Wouldn't have called me a goddamn queer and punched me in the face?"

John runs a hand through his hair. "Maybe not. I can't say for sure, Dean. I really can't. But you should have given me the opportunity to find out. A different way than I did. You should give me the opportunity to grow and change and adapt to new situations just like everyone else." John wrings his hands together in his lap. "And you can't do that if you hide shit from me."

Dean scoffs. "Why should I? It didn't matter how much I hated baseball, you shoved me outside and locked the door over and over again until my swing improved. I was hungry. My hands bled. I had homework to do. But you constantly prioritized baseball above all of that."

John shakes his head again. "Look at this from my perspective, Dean. If I hadn't thrown you out of the house to play ball, what would you have done? I got you into baseball because you _needed_ it. All you did after your mom passed was sit in your room and stare into space. For hours, Dean. Just doing nothing. I was worried about you, man. You refused to make friends, find hobbies. At four years old, you looked like you were just waiting to die. It killed me, seeing you like that. So yeah, I pushed you into baseball, and maybe I pushed you a little too hard, but it's what made me happy when I was a kid, so it was the only thing I could think of that might help you too. And until you woke up just now and told me you didn't want to play it anymore, I had no fucking clue you didn't like it. None. I've been to every one of your games, no matter what, and yeah, I pushed you to be great because I saw talent in you. And when I was in the minor leagues and I tore my rotator cuff, it was like the end of my fucking _life_ , man. But I didn't treat you the way my old man treated me. I never once got on you about losing a game. I've never been disappointed. I just wanted it to be fun for you. I wanted it to be something in your life you could be proud of, look back on and say, 'This is what I did. This is what I worked hard for.'"

Dean doesn't buy it. He doesn't buy an ounce of this bullshit. "You told Sam you didn't want him to turn into me," he says, malice etched on his face in a scowl.

"And I still don't!" John exclaims. "You take everything so fucking seriously, Dean. You hold everything in, every minute of every day. You never smile. You never relax. You don't know how to have fun. It's like you're in your own private hell instead of living life. I don't want that for Sam. I see how hard you push him, and it's no fucking different than how hard I pushed you. And I see what that did to you now, Dean, I really do. I'm sorry I had to learn that lesson with you. But we gotta give Sam the life we both know he deserves." He looks down at his hands, eyes brimming with tears. "He's gotta be able to enjoy life like we never could."

Staring into John's eyes, Dean replies flatly, "Like Mom never could, either."

As tears fall down John's face, he says, "Your mother..." He sighs, breath shuddering. "She had a lot of problems, Dean. I'll tell you about them sometime when you're ready to hear them, but man, she was haunted. And I know I ain't much better. I know I'm not. But you know what?" He takes Dean's hand from underneath the bar of the bed and squeezes it. Looking Dean in the eye, he says, "I'm here and she's not."

Dean's throat constricts and he takes a deep breath, looking at his father's hand on his own. He can't respond. He doesn't know what to think or what to feel about anything anymore. He's held onto this hatred, this resentment of his father for so long, he doesn't know how to live without it.

John continues, voice quiet, "I'm sorry, Dean. That's all I can say. I love you and your brother more than anything in this whole damn world and I would do anything for you boys. But I'm not perfect. I'm not some side character in the _Dean Winchester Is a Lonely Gay Dude_ biopic. I'm a person. And I make mistakes. I grow and learn and change just like everyone else. And you have to give me the opportunity to do that. I'm sorry I've been a bad dad. I'm sorry I've been narrow-minded and bigoted. I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't show me the real you. I'll put all of that on my shoulders, man. But you gotta take some of this on, too. All I've ever wanted, from the moment you were born, was for you to be happy. It kills me to think that it's my fault that you're not. You have to take ownership of your own happiness now, though. You gotta decide if you want to forgive your old man for being an idiot. And you gotta decide how you want to live your life going forward.

"This is all I have to offer: you be Dean Winchester, and I'll be John Winchester, and I promise you, come hell or high water, I will protect you, and accept you, and be proud of you, and love you until the day I die, and there is nothing you can say or do that will ever change that."

Dean can't hold back the dam of tears that escape him. He raises his arms toward John, who stands up and leans down to hug Dean as gently as he can. Muffled in his shoulder, between hitched, shaking breaths and sobs, Dean says, "I love you, Dad."

John pulls away, and ruffles Dean's hair, like he's done almost every day of Dean's life. "I love you too, Dean."


	21. Chapter 9: Dean, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter helps to make up for some of the mental and emotional trauma you've had to endure while reading this fic.

A half-hour after John leaves, Dean hears a soft rap on the open door of his hospital room. He hurriedly turns off the syndicated _Dr. Sexy_ episode he was watching before looking toward the door.

Cas asks, "May I come in?"

Dean appreciates small moments. This moment, the very second that he looks at Cas in the doorway of his hospital room, is both the biggest and smallest moment of his life.

It is at this moment – Cas, eyebrows knit atop an expression of concern and holding a dozen roses – that Dean Winchester realizes he is truly, utterly, heart-wrenchingly in love with Castiel Krushnic.

Behind him, the heart monitor beeps faster.

Dean grins like an idiot, happier than he's ever been in his entire fucking life. "Hey, Cas."

Cas grins back, and suddenly they're back in their bubble of blissful happiness where nothing can hurt them. "Hello, Dean."

As Cas crosses the hospital room to take a seat next to Dean's bed, Dean notices he's wearing an outfit decidedly un-Castiel: a grey henley with the sleeves pushed up and dark-wash jeans. Like everything Cas wears, Dean thinks it looks really fucking hot on him, and Dean's immediate reaction is that he wants to rip it all off as soon as humanly possible.

"How are you feeling?" Cas asks, putting the flowers in a vase and setting them on the bedside table.

Dean keeps grinning, suddenly giddy. "I'm great. How are _you_ feeling?"

Cas giggles. Actually _giggles_.

Then Dean starts giggling too, and so they sit there, staring at each other and laughing, because the realization dawns on both of them at the same time:

All of this is so fucking ridiculous. But they're both alive, and that's what matters most.

They slow down and take a breath, and Cas reaches onto the bed to take Dean's hand in his own.

"Thank you for the flowers," Dean tells him, face flushing.

Just like a fourteen year old girl. He has _got_ to get his shit together.

Still, no one has ever bought him flowers before. They make his heart feel so much lighter, and he realizes now why people buy them.

"No problem," Cas replies, suddenly shy.

Two days ago, Dean almost died. And Cas almost died. And now, for no apparent reason, they're _shy_ around each other and giggling like little kids.

Dean kind of loves it.

He rakes his eyes over Cas's body and asks, for the second time in his life, "So what's with the get-up?"

Cas looks down at himself. "Oddly enough, your father went out and bought them for me. He bought you new clothes too, because of, you know, the blood and the gaping hole in the back of your shirt. He said I was freaking people out wearing a blood-covered Armani tuxedo."

Dean nods, and remembers every Christmas of his life, which is the only day of the year his father opts for responsibility over fun, the one day frivolity matters most. John always bought Sam and Dean clothes for Christmas. Boxes and boxes of clothes, of increasing sizes based on how much he thought they would grow the upcoming year. They each got a pair of shoes and bags of socks and underwear. He also, unfailingly, bought them each a toothbrush, and gave them a card with a hand-written coupon in it for two free dental cleanings the next year. He always drew – attempted to, at least – tooth-themed cartoons on them and signed the cards as Santa.

Every Christmas, Dean and Sam each got one big, fun gift. It was never anything they specifically asked for, rather something they didn't realize they wanted. When they were kids, he bought them things like remote control cars and helicopters, super-soakers, buckets upon buckets of Legos. As they grew up, he tailored their gifts to the men they'd become. Sam got chemistry sets and first-edition, signed classic novels. Dean got electronics, and then, when he was fifteen, John got him the Impala, which at the time was just a heap of junk. John told him they could work on it together and fix it up so that when Dean turned sixteen, it'd be all his to drive.

Dean realizes with a thud in his heart that he has never – not for Christmas, or Father's Day, or John's birthday – given his father a gift. It never occurred to him to do that. He was too wrapped up in resenting his father, too focused on the clothes and not enough on the Impala, to even consider it.

Dean clears his throat, shaking away his thoughts to process at another time. "Dad said you and he had a talk."

Cas nods. "Yeah, I gave him the whole _love is love_ speech. I think I made a few connections for him and his perspective is a little different now. I'm always amazed at how a little patience can go a long way sometimes." He pauses, and adds, "Your father is a good man, Dean. Strange. But good."

Dean huffs a laugh. "He said the same thing about you." He hesitates before saying, "He also apologized to me."

"Are you going to forgive him?" Cas asks, squeezing Dean's hand.

Dean shrugs, winces from the pain, and sighs. "I don't know. I have a lot to think about."

"I understand." Cas looks down at their hands together and strokes Dean's thumb with his own. "But for what it's worth, not every father in the world would kill a man for his son."

Dean nods. "That's tru– wait, _what?!"_

Cas's eyes go wide in disbelief. "He didn't tell you he shot Dick Roman?"

"No, he kinda failed to mention that!"

"Oh." Cas chews on his lip, and adds, "Yeah. That was a thing that he did. Shot Dick right in the head after he stabbed you."

Dean takes a deep breath, and says, "Jesus. Is he... going to jail or anything? I'm kind of out of the loop, man. When I woke up, I thought baseball was more important than homicide, I guess."

Cas shrugs. "I honestly don't know, Dean. I think Charlie's claiming she did it. Protecting a hostage, or something. I'm sure we'll figure it out when things settle down."

 _Settle down_. Such a thing doesn't seem possible anymore.

"In other, potentially related news," Cas continues, "Michael is gay and apologized to me for ruining my childhood, and then he and Gabe both apologized for abandoning me for five years and then attempting to kill me. So it looks like you and I both have some forgiveness to consider."

"Wow," Dean responds, nodding. "So what happens now?"

Cas looks tired. His other hand is bandaged up, his face is still bruised, his hair is crazier than it usually is – which is saying something considering the physics-defying mess it tends to be – and his blue eyes, which are normally bright, are cloudy and weary.

Castiel is so young, but he's endured so much, and Dean just appreciates him for everything that he is.

"Well, that's what I've been thinking about." Cas draws his hand away and leans back in the chair, staring out the window. "Boris Romanov is probably going to come after all of us, and I don't know what to do about that. Anna is missing, and I don't know what to do about that. My brothers are trained assassins who, like us, have gone against one of the most powerful men in the world, and I don't know what to do about that. I'm going to get deported as soon as I don't pay my tuition, and I don't know what to do about–"

"Marry me."

Cas blinks at him. "Excuse me?"

Dean looks straight into Cas's beautiful blue eyes, face set in determination. "Marry me, Cas."

"I can't do that, Dean." He looks down and shakes his head. "I'm sorry."

"Why not?" Dean asks.

"Because, I... I don't know what the hell is even going to happen."

Dean shakes his head. "I don't care."

"The entire Russian mafia is on my ass," Cas adds.

"I don't care."

"I've been a prostitute my entire adult life."

"I don't care."

Cas sighs. "I'm a terrible driver."

Dean smirks. "I don't care."

"When I was in prison, I gouged a man's eyes out with my thumbs."

"I don't c– you what? No, never mind, I don't care." Dean gestures for Cas to come closer, and when he gets within arm's reach, Dean bunches the front of Cas's shirt up in his fist and drags him down. Before meeting their lips together, Dean crosses his eyes to see Cas clearly and says, "You can keep telling me reasons not to marry you, and I'm not gonna give a shit about a single one of them." Then he pulls Cas down the rest of the way, and their lips meet for the first time in what feels like eternity.

Their mouths slide against each other, and Cas places his hand on the bed to steady himself, melting deeper into the kiss. Cas tastes like mint and Dean doesn't want to do anything else in his entire life but this, feeling Cas's stubble against his face, breathing into his mouth and making him sigh with contentment.

When they finally, reluctantly separate, Cas hovers above Dean. "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't risk you trying to save my life again. I can't risk you getting hurt."

Dean traces his hands up Cas's chest and neck, and holds his face between them. Searching his eyes, Dean says, barely above a whisper, "I love you, Cas. I would rather die knowing you're safe than live knowing you're not."

Cas freezes, staring at Dean in wonder, then mutters something in Russian, and suddenly they're kissing again, and it's frantic but gentle, resounding yet simple. Dean runs his fingers through Cas's hair and pulls him in closer until Cas has to sit down on the bed, then he puts his feet up on it and Dean slides over, trying not to wince in pain, and Cas lies next to him, never letting their lips part for more than a second, because a second away from Cas is like an eternity in hell.

When they break apart, after what feels like hours, giving each other tiny kisses between breaths, they stare at each other in comfortable silence, threading their fingers together. Cas brings Dean's hand up to his lips, the one without the IV, and kisses it softly. With a deep, quiet voice, Cas begins singing a slow lullaby in Russian, and Dean closes his eyes, letting Cas's voice surround him, until he finally falls asleep.


	22. Chapter 9: Cas, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I realized that by the time I finish this, I will have written two novel-length fics in the span of three months. Just... whoa.
> 
> This is actually my favorite chapter so far even though I'm not sure you guys will like it.
> 
> Also I really want to rewrite this entire fic from Charlie's perspective. 
> 
> When I post at 4AM, I have no control over what I put in these notes. I feel like there was something else I wanted to tell you. Oh! Michaela Grey is still best beta. <3

Castiel sits in the waiting area of the ICU, waiting for Dean to regain consciousness, and twiddling Dean's phone in his hands while contemplating his immediate future.

He sighs.

They are all in _a lot_ of trouble.

And by trouble, he means danger.

And by danger, he means that their likelihood of imminent death has increased exponentially.

There is no way out of this, Cas realizes.

He's fought so hard his whole life to survive, and now he's going to die.

He won't go down without a fight, though. Like he always has before, he'll go out swinging when it all boils down. At the very least, he'll do what it takes to save Dean and John. None of this is their fault. They got roped into it with Cas's selfishness. Just like Dick said, Cas holds himself higher than everyone else. Cas wallows in his victimhood, and thinks it somehow absolves him from his faults.

But Castiel is no longer a victim.

He needs to become his own hero.

A large cup of coffee appears by his face, and he trails his eyes up the pale arm of one totally pissed-off-yet-somehow-apologetic-looking federal agent.

"You suck," Charlie says, and collapses into the chair next to Cas.

Cas takes a sip of the coffee and replies, "But I do it well."

Charlie slouches down so far in the chair that her head is resting on the back of it, and she stares up at the ceiling, exasperated. "This was my first undercover op and I totally blew it and it's all your fault."

Cas rolls his eyes and scoffs. "Excuse me for coming to the United States and enduring an excessively abusive relationship so that my twin sister could lead a better life. It was totally my intention to fuck up your mission."

Charlie sighs. "No, I mean it's not your fault. What I mean, I guess, is that you're at the center of something so huge that we can't even comprehend it. I can _feel_ it. You're steering this ship, Cas, and you don't even know it yet."

Cas hadn't considered that.

Charlie continues, "I gotta find a way to fix this. At first, it was just gathering intel on Dick Roman and his drug operation in the US. Money laundering on a massive fucking scale, you know? I didn't even know the name Boris Romanov until we found your note, and now, it's like... international. We're talking the biggest underground, black market prescription drug trade in the fucking world, Cas. This is a David and Goliath situation. This is like a locally-owned grocery store going up against Wal-Mart. We're in over our heads, and I have the entire fucking FBI on my side... _and_ on my ass, somehow. I'm taking damage from both sides."

Cas leans forward and holds his cup of coffee between his hands.

"The good news," Charlie adds, still talking to the ceiling, "is that the security camera loop covered up John shooting Dick. And because Dick is... _was_... a total dick, no one on the fed side is going to investigate, which means I can take the rap for it and only get my wrist slapped. The extra good news is that this'll likely draw Romanov out to us so we can snag him. The bad news is that, because there's no obvious evidence of who killed Dick, my bet is that Boris'll come after all of us. Together or separately, I don't know. Sooner or later, I don't know that either." Charlie sits up, and looks at Cas, who turns around to look at her too. "I'm sorry I kept my eyes so focused on the macro that I lost sight of why I joined this gig in the first place, which was to help people. You needed my help, and I just sat by and watched, constantly telling myself it was for the greater good; that the suffering of one man – one flamboyant, adorable Russian boy who stole my heart with his sharp sense of humor and his devotion to the gay agenda – was worth the mission. And it wasn't." Charlie places her hand on Cas's arm, squeezes it, and looks at him with unabashed remorse. "And it never will be again."

Cas stares at her, face etched in stone, and replies, "No hetero though."

A wide smile spreads across Charlie's face, and she says, "No hetero," before wrapping Cas into a big hug.

When she lets go, she looks at Cas with concern and takes a deep breath. "I don't have a plan yet, so in the meantime, we have to be ready for anything."

***

Cas is still in the waiting room, flipping through pictures on Dean's phone because his curiosity got the best of him and he's a terrible boyfriend. Or almost-boyfriend. Or whatever the hell he is to Dean now. There aren't many pictures. Most of them are of Sam or car engines. There's a picture of Bobby looking pissed. There are a few sunsets and flowers, and it makes Cas smile. There are no pictures of Dean or John at all.

Suddenly, there's a large shopping bag in front of his face, and he trails his eyes up the strong, tan arm of an angry, middle-aged man.

"Get changed. You're freaking everyone out," John tells him.

Cas takes the bag, wary. "Thanks?"

"You're welcome. I got some stuff for Dean too. You two are about the same size so pick out what you like and let Dean keep the rest. Used to be able to do that with him and Sammy, but now Sam is too damn tall. Can't even shop for him at normal department stores anymore. Kid's growing like a weed." John collapses down on the other side of Cas. Charlie is still on his opposite side, wearing headphones and getting "work" done on her laptop, though from Cas's peripheral vision, it looks like she's playing a video game.

Cas looks in the bag at department store clothes that would make his US-self scoff and his Russian-self weep in gratitude. He is now some kind of third self, maybe a Dean-self, comprised of the glue holding together his two radically conflicting sides. Maybe the glue is Dean, and Dean can help him put the shattered pieces of himself back together into a complete, cohesive picture.

Whether or not that picture is something worthy of viewing remains to be seen.

John interrupts Cas's reverie by adding, "Trust me, Dean will like them."

The depth of meaning in those six words astounds Cas. On one hand, he's not sure if John means that Dean will like the clothes John picked out, or if Dean will like the clothes John picked out _on Cas._ He isn't sure what John means by "trust me;" if it's some kind of power game, some passive-aggressive way of saying, _I know my son better than you, so don't you dare try to take him away from me._ Lastly, Cas is angry that John even has the audacity to utter the words, "trust me," after the way he reacted upon finding Dean and Cas together.

Cas looks at John, expression stern. "I would like to level with you, Mr. Winchester."

"Call me John."

"All right, _John_ ," Cas corrects. "Considering we all almost died this week, I'm going to be perfectly honest with you. I thought your disapproval of Dean's sexuality would make him push me away. To consider anything else would have been wishful thinking on my part."

John blinks at Cas, expressionless. He looks ragged and weary, and eventually Cas stares him down so that he breaks eye contact and shifts around in his seat. Looking at his shoes, he says quietly, "I didn't know, Cas. Is that really how Dean sees me?"

"Well, you did end up punching him in the face, so I'm going to go with yes."

John sighs and shakes his head, then looks back up at Cas and asks, "You got kids?"

Cas narrows his eyes at him like he's a fucking idiot. Because he is.

"Right. Dumb question." He rubs his face with his hand. "This shit is hard, man. I'm not gonna lie, I been thinking about that night a lot. Why I reacted like that. It wasn't because you guys are... gay. It was because I felt betrayed, you know? Dean's always kinda been my best friend, and to hide something like that from me... it was like being stabbed in the back."

Charlie pipes up without looking away from her laptop, "Too soon, Winchester."

Cas ignores her. "Dean can't be your best friend and your son at the same time, John. And you can't force him to be someone he's not based on some ideal you've created for him. I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable with our relationship– actually, no, I'm not sorry about that at all. I would just expect the single father of two sons, and the man who was willing to kill a person on behalf of one of those sons, would be able to understand that love is a genderless, undefined concept." Cas pauses for John to reply, to argue or defend himself, but he stays silent, so Cas continues, "You can't take away Dean's ability to love. I won't let you."

John stares at his feet.

Cas adds, barely above a whisper, "I understand you're protective of Dean, but I am too. And I want you to know, John, that although I've never shot and killed a man, I've done much worse, for much less."

John swallows, and without looking at Cas, stands up to leave the room.

***

About an hour later, Cas finds himself with Dean, finally awake, being interrupted while reciting a laundry list of reasons why everything is royally fucked.

"Marry me," Dean says.

At first, Cas doesn't think he heard him right. "Excuse me?"

"Marry me, Cas."

Cas narrows his eyes and tilts his head, and briefly again wonders if he died. If he died and went to hell, he would probably have to see Dean in a hospital bed, wounded and in pain. One point for hell.

Yet heaven is the only place he can imagine Dean would propose to him. One point for heaven.

The scales are even, which leads Cas to believe one possible conclusion: he is alive, and Dean Winchester, _the_ Dean Winchester, just proposed to him.

Castiel is momentarily elated before his heart sinks to his stomach and he realizes that he can't marry Dean. He can no longer be that selfish, holier-than-thou fuckhead who destroys everyone he touches. He has to stay away from Dean for his own good. "I can't do that, Dean. I'm sorry."

Cas lists off a number of reasons why they can't get married, and Dean keeps dismissing all of them. Finally, Dean gestures for Cas to come closer to him, and then pulls Cas down so that their faces are inches apart. Right before Cas thinks they're about to kiss, Dean stops and pauses, looking all over Cas's face before saying, "You can keep telling me reasons not to marry you, and I'm not gonna give a shit about a single one of them."

Finally, he pulls Cas down further and all of his reality melts away from him. Dean's lips feel like home, like sitting in front of a fire after a long cold day and drinking cocoa, that sweet relief of no longer carrying the burden of solitude. Dean is a force to be reckoned with, a man who barged into his wedding and raised hell, a completely selfless act that Cas would never have imagined someone would do for him but in the fantastical stories he used to tell Anna.

But that's all this is: a fantastical story. And all stories have to end.

Cas gathers together all of his willpower and pulls away. "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't risk you trying to save my life again. I can't risk you getting hurt," and stops himself from adding, _I love you too much to let that happen again._

He doesn't need to say those words, though, because Dean looks deep into his eyes and comes to a conclusion, saying with conviction, "I love you, Cas. I would rather die knowing you're safe than live knowing you're not."

This is it. This is the moment when Castiel shatters into pieces so fine that, with the fire of their love, he can finally be put back together again, melded into the shape of a glass heart that he will give to Dean, entrusting its fragility in his careful, callused hands.

Cas completely forgets English in this moment of vulnerability, and whispers in his native tongue,  " _Да, я выйду за тебя замуж."_

_Yes, I'll marry you._

Cas crushes their mouths together again, unable to bear another fraction of a second away from Dean's lips, and carefully crawls in bed next to him. They kiss until the world ends, until their minds empty and become filled again with nothing but the feel of the slide of their lips against one another, the steady breathing of lungs and beating of hearts that only function, and have only ever functioned, to lead up to this very moment.

When they finally slow, pressing gentle, lazy kisses to each other's mouths, Dean looks at Cas and his eyes start to blink slower and slower, drowsy with the exhaustion of the amount of pain he's in.

It reminds Cas that nothing is okay just yet, and there's an incomprehensibly large, dark shadow on the horizon.

A dark shadow named Boris Romanov.

Absent-mindedly, Cas starts humming a lullaby, then singing it the way his mother used to sing to him at night, to help coax him into settling his hyperactive self and fall asleep. It served as a terrifying reminder that the world is a bad place, with darkness lurking around each corner, inevitable punishment for the wrongdoings of misunderstood children with innocent hearts.

_Tili tili bom_   
_Close your eyes now_   
_Someone's walking outside the house_   
_And knocks on the door_

_Tili tili bom_   
_The nightbirds are chirping_   
_He is outside the house_   
_To visit those who can't sleep_   
_He walks_   
_He is coming_   
_Closer_

_Tili tili bom_   
_Can you hear him closing in?_   
_Lurking around the corner_   
_Staring right at you_

_Tili tili bom_   
_The silent night hears everything_   
_He sneaks up behind you_   
_And he is going to get you_   
_He walks_   
_He is coming_   
_Closer_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crank up the volume because [here's the lullaby in Russian](http://youtu.be/BDMmj5WgB8c). You'll want to hear it before we begin to roll this train downhill.


	23. Chapter 9: Cas, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tili...
> 
> tili...
> 
> _bom._

Dean is released from the hospital four days later, late in the evening. John, Cas, and Charlie split a cheap motel room down the road while Dean is in the hospital. Cas overheard the conversation when they decided to camp out in Chicago, when John told Sam they would be staying for a few days. Sam had apparently threatened to hijack a car and meet them there, and John in turn threatened to take away his permission to see Jess anymore if he did anything other than, as John had said, “hold down the fort.”

They stay in Chicago one more night. On the drive home, John is driving the Impala – Dean groaned pitifully upon seeing the damage it had taken – Charlie is riding shotgun, and Dean is curled up underneath Cas’s arm in the backseat, holding on to what Cas thinks might be a lifetime supply of painkillers.

The car is silent, and Cas can feel Dean doze off, face resting on his chest while Cas holds him tight. It feels so damn good to do this, to openly express their love for one another, their ability to comfort each other when they need to.

Dean suddenly sits up and looks at Cas, wide-eyed and stunned. “I just remembered something: I met Boris Romanov.”

All three of them reply, _“What?!”_

“Yeah.” Dean presses a palm to his forehead and squeezes his eyes shut in concentration. “Yeah, he – Dr. Crowley – came into my room the night it happened. He told me Boris Romanov didn’t exist. That only the fear of him did. Then he… he… put his hand over my stomach like he was going to press down on it and I freaked out. Then he just… left.” He takes a deep breath. “Holy shit.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a dream?” Cas asks, his hand on Dean’s knee.

“I thought it was at the time.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “But I don’t think it was. It hurt too much. It was too real. Boris fucking Romanov was in my hospital room. Jesus Christ, that’s creepy.”

Charlie turns around in her seat to face them, and asks, “And he didn’t hurt you?”

Dean runs his hand through his hair. “No. That’s what’s so weird about it. He just… made me think he would. It was so fucking weird.”

“Well, that’s definitely creepy as hell,” John says.

Charlie turns back around to face the front. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t really help us at all, except to know that he’s… around here somewhere. And honestly? Even if we just fucking… ran into him on the street, I wouldn’t have anything to pin on him. I ended up with a fair bit of stuff on Dick, but his dad? The guy is like a fucking ghost.”

Cas reaches for Dean’s hand and they entwine their fingers together before the car again falls silent.

***

At the motel room later that night, Dean is sleeping soundly in Cas’s embrace, but Cas can’t sleep. Charlie is curled up on her side on the other bed, and John is on the ground between them, snoring obnoxiously.

The lullaby loops in Cas’s head on repeat, getting louder and louder, an ominous and never-ending war cry of voices singing, _“Tili tili bom…”_ His mind is racing, piecing together options and paths and speculation of what might happen next. He can’t think of a single scenario that won’t end in tragedy.

If he marries Dean and stays in the US, they’ll be under Boris Romanov’s shadow, living in fear until Romanov finally strikes.

If Cas doesn’t marry Dean and gets deported, he’ll never be able to come back to the US.

If he goes back to Russia with his brothers to find Anna, he doesn’t know what will happen. That path leads to one big question mark.

There is no option that will let them be a big, happy family.

Cas wonders if such a thing even exists in reality.

The night is completely silent except for the noise of the air conditioner. Cas stares out the window at the nearby streetlamp which casts an eerie orange glow on everything in the room. Gnats and moths flutter around the light as Cas finally comes to the conclusion that there is nothing he can do but wait.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait for long, because three shadows dash across the window.

One of them throws a thin silver canister through the window, shattering it, and it lands on the floor with a thud, immediately billowing a large cloud of smoke into the room.

Cas sits up with a jolt, followed by Dean, Charlie, and John.

“What the _fuck_?” Dean shouts.

Charlie grabs her gun from under her pillow and all of them clamber out of their beds, coughing from the smoke and darting for the door.

Cas reaches it first. He twists the handle and pulls, to no avail. His heart is thudding in his ears and suddenly Dean is behind him, yanking back the door too, but it’s locked from the outside.

John risks running to the window, his face in the crook of his good arm and kicks out the remaining shards of glass with his socked foot, but the cloud of smoke overcomes him and he teeters back, then falls to the ground, unconscious.

“Dad!” Dean runs to his father’s side, but inhales the smoke too, falling to his hands and knees before collapsing next to John.

The smoke expands in the room, and Cas’s lungs are full of it. He’s choking on the noxious fumes of the poison gas and falls to his knees, vision blurry, staring at Charlie who has her arm covering her nose and mouth while she strains to hold her breath, gun leveled at the window across the room. She backs up as far as she can, away from the gas, until she hits a wall.

Cas can’t hold out. He can’t hold his breath another second, and he can’t risk making it to the window. His lungs are on fire, straining for breath, his heart beating slower and slower in his ears.

With one last look at Dean, Cas relents, and finally takes a deep breath.

Everything goes black.

***

Castiel regains consciousness slowly. He’s sitting on the ground, slumped against plaster wall, his wrists handcuffed behind his back. His eyes open, lazily blinking sight back into them. The floor below him is cold, white tile, and he rakes his gaze up to look at his surroundings.

It’s bright. There are fluorescent lights on overhead. The room is large and filled filing cabinets, floor to ceiling, spanning the length of the walls. Office chairs line up in front of desks, and there’s a large, sliding glass window above one of the desks which faces the next room.

Cas looks to his left and right. Dean is propped up next to him on one side and Charlie on the other. Cas peers forward and sees John on the other side of Dean. They’re all on the ground with their hands cuffed behind their backs.

John groans and shakes his head awake.

“John,” Cas hisses.

He groans again.

“John, wake up.”

“What?” he mumbles.

Dean groans too, and lifts his head to slowly blink back into consciousness and look around. Suddenly, his face etches into a mask of pain and he cries out, slumping forward over himself.

“Dean, are you okay?” Cas asks in an urgent whisper.

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and grits his teeth. “I think I busted a few stitches.”

“Goddammit!” John yells, fighting vainly against his restraints.

“Shut up!” Cas whispers. “We have to stay quiet.”

“Why, Cas?” John asks. “We are royally _fucked_. I don’t see how volume control is really gonna make a difference at this point.”

Cas looks to Charlie, still unconscious, with a large cut on her forehead which is drizzling blood down her face.

Before Cas can think of a snappy response to John for being a total fucking loudmouth, the door across the room opens and in walk three people dressed in black with ski masks covering their faces, all carrying AK-47s at their hips.

They step to the side in unison, and a shadow slowly fills the doorway.

As the man walks closer to the door, his boots click against the tile, which echoes loudly around the room.

Finally, the man enters. He’s wearing a simple black business suit, with a white shirt and a bright red tie.

Cas’s heart pounds in his chest, and he heaves out breaths of intense wrath, shaking with rage.

Castiel recognizes this man.

The night of the fire, as Gabriel shouted at he and Anna to escape, Cas caught a glimpse of the man who turned around to face them, lifting his gas mask before opening fire.

Cas did not remember it until this very moment, the moment he stares into the sharp eyes of the gas-masked man who ripped his family apart and destroyed Castiel’s entire life.

 _This_ is Boris Romanov.

His boots click against the tile as he walks, finally stopping a few feet away and staring down at the four of them.

 _“Romanov_ , _”_ Dean growls.

Boris lifts his lips into a Cheshire cat grin, and replies softly, “Lovely seeing you again, Dean. I so enjoyed our chat.” He turns his gaze to John. “And you must be daddy Winchester. Very nice meeting you.” He finally shifts his attention to Cas and takes a slow step toward him. “And Castiel Krushnic. My my, how you’ve grown.”

None of them respond.

Boris scoffs. “Americans are so rude.” He squats to the ground and stares them down at eye-level. “You’re all probably wondering why I gathered you here today.” When none of them answer, he continues, looking each one of them in the eye in turn, “One of you killed my son. All of you were involved. And you, Castiel,” he looks again at Cas, smirking. “You tortured my poor Rostik’s heart. I am _very_ unhappy with you.”

“Whatever he took,” Cas replies, meeting Boris’s gaze, “he gave back tenfold.”

Boris puts a hand to his chest. “I simply don’t believe that, Castiel. My son was a brilliant, kind boy.”

“Do you have another son? Because I don’t think we’re talking about the same person.”

Boris chuckles. “Such a sharp tongue for a man whose head is on the chopping block.”

Sneering, Cas replies, “Better to cut you with, Romanov.”

Boris laughs, low and dark, then stands back up and turns his back to them, walking past the three gunmen. He stops, turns his head to the side, and orders, “Kill them.”

The gunmen line up in front of them, aiming the rifles at their heads.

Cas is frozen on the spot, staring straight into the barrel of the gun a mere foot from his face, unable to think or do anything but listen to his own rapid, shallow breaths.

Then Castiel hears the distinctive sound of hard candy being shifted around in one of the gunmen’s mouths.

The gunman in front of Cas takes a hand off the gun, then lifts it up to the ski mask, and rips it off in one fluid motion.

Cas blinks.

He stops breathing.

The gunman has bright red hair, cut short; smooth, pale skin; wide lips slowly turning up into a crooked smile.

And her eyes…

They’re fiercer than Cas remembers them, but they’re still the brightest blue imaginable, like the first frost of every winter.

In utter, tremendous, all-encompassing disbelief, Cas whispers, _“Anna.”_  


	24. Chapter 10: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May not be able to post tomorrow. My sister is dragging me out _yet again_ despite the fact that I left the house and interacted with other human beings _twice_ this weekend. I think her concern, however, is that in both of those situations, I was curled up in a ball singing "Tili Tili Bom" while intermittently yelling, "One point for gay!" the whole time.
> 
> I'm sorry I suck at grammar, Michaela Grey.

The chick with a rifle in front of Cas's face takes off her ski mask, and Dean can't bring himself to care who the fuck is holding guns to them because he's too focused on not fainting from the agonizing pain in his midsection, and, moreover, not dying. The faces are irrelevant in comparison to the fact that _assassins are about to murder them._

Dean also can't bring himself to care that the chick has long red hair and plush pink lips just like Cas's and blue eyes freakishly similar to both Cas and Michael, until Cas whispers, _"Anna."_

"This is Anna?!" Dean asks, shocked, but what he really means is, _"Holy fucking shit, how is this even real?"  
_

On the other side of Cas, Dean hears Charlie stir, and – Dean presumes upon seeing Anna – lets out a deep, breathy, _"Whoa."_

Anna smiles down at Castiel and winks, before turning on her heel and pointing the rifle at Boris, shouting, "[SVR](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Foreign_Intelligence_Service_\(Russia\))! DOWN ON YOUR KNEES! HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD!"

Boris, mouth agape, complies, kneeling down and touching his hands to the back of his head.

The gunmen in front of Dean and John pull off their masks and simultaneously point their guns at Anna.

John mutters an exasperated, "Oh, goddammit," while Dean says, "Son of a _bitch."_

Anna drops the AK-47 back to her hip and quickly reaches down to thigh-holsters on each of her legs to produce two handguns, leveling one at Gabriel and the other at Michael. "What the fuck are you fuckers doing here?"

Michael sneers, and Gabe replies, "What the fuck are _you_ doing here? A fucking Russian fed in the US? We're here to save Cas's ass. You should probably go have a donut and let us finish this like civilized human beings."

"Bullshit," Anna responds. "You work for this fucker." She tilts her head in Boris's direction.

"No, Anna," Cas begins, "They're okay, I swear."

Anna laughs, keeping her eyes and guns trained on her brothers. "You really buy that shit? These idiots abandoned us. They left us for dead, to starve on the streets. They've had their mugshots hung up in my office since I started. The only person more wanted than these assholes is Chuckles over there." She cocks both of her guns. "I wouldn't trust them to tie my fucking shoes, let alone save us from this asshole with the obnoxious red necktie."

Boris interjects, "I will have you know, this tie is–"

"Shut the fuck up, Romanov," Anna interrupts, and, to Gabe, says with a smile, "You're both under arrest too. I'm going to get a gold star for bagging a three-fer."

"Darling little sister," Gabe says sweetly, _"We're_ the ones with the AK-47s. _You're_ the one with baby gherkin pistols."

Grinning crookedly, Anna dares, "Yeah? Just see what happens if you so much as move your trigger finger a fraction of a fucking inch. I will _end_ you."

"Anna!" Cas shouts. "We're all family! And we have bigger fucking priorities right now than bickering like children."

"Children with deadly-ass weapons," Charlie says under her breath, and Dean can see from his peripheral vision that she's moving around, bracing her feet against the ground to shift herself up the wall and contort her body to get her cuffed wrists out from behind her. Then she reaches into her hair and pulls out a bobby pin to shove into the keyhole of the cuffs.

From the opposite end of the room, Boris chuckles darkly and rises. "As much as I truly enjoy being witness to this touching family moment, there is absolutely nothing keeping me here. I'll go ahead and see myself out so that you can finish this week's episode of the Krushnic Family Soap Opera."

Cas makes a jerking motion to Dean's right accompanied by a sick popping sound. He stands and sneers, shoving his thumb back into its socket with a growl, then ducks underneath the triangle of guns pointed at his siblings' faces and approaches Boris, who steps backward slowly until he hits a wall.

"Cas, baby, what the hell are you doing?" Dean asks, wary.

Cas ignores him, and bunches Boris's lapels into his fists, slamming him backward against the wall.

"Castiel!" Anna exclaims, not taking her eyes from her brothers. " _Back down_. You don't know what you're dealing with."

Charlie finally gets her cuffs undone and crawls quickly over to Dean, who leans forward so she can unlock his cuffs too.

The lock clicks on his handcuffs. They fall away from his wrists, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, suddenly realizing how much pain he's in. His vision blurs at the edges, and now that his shoulder blades and back muscles aren't taut and contorted, he can feel the warm trickle of blood saturating his bandages and falling down his back.

While Charlie uncuffs John too, John asks, seeing Dean's face quickly pale, "Dean? Are you okay?"

Dean clenches his jaw and swallows, blinking a few times. "Yeah... yeah, I'm okay."

When Charlie finally has John free, she stands up and takes her gun out from the ankle holster underneath her Star Wars pajama pants and walks around the second Russian standoff Dean has ever seen to level it at Boris's head.

Anna darts her eyes to Charlie. "Who the hell are you?"

Without taking her gaze away from Boris, Charlie responds, "Agent Bradbury, FBI. And if we survive this, probably your future fucking girlfriend," then turns her attention to Boris and adds, "Boris Romanov, you are under arrest for–"

Boris, still pressed against the wall, cackles loudly. "You idiots! You're all morons! You didn't think I would have anticipated tweedle-dee and tweedle-dumb here turning on me? Though I admit the ginger fed was a surprise, it is still _pathetic_ that the whole lot of you think you can even lay a hand on me."

So Cas lays a hand on him in the form of a mean left-hook against Boris's jaw.

Boris reels from the punch and shakes his head, returning quickly to his jovial laughter. "But Castiel," he whispers excitedly, _"You can't kill me."_

"Why not?" Cas asks through gritted teeth, shoving Boris against the wall again.

"Because I can't be killed, Castiel." Boris smiles at him. "Boris Romanov isn't a man. He's an _idea_. He's a _fear_. You can kill Dr. Fergus Crowley, benefactor of the largest children's hospital and research lab in the country, but Boris Romanov and his mafia will continue existing whether I'm alive or dead. It's bigger than just one man. It's bigger than your petty little romance with your green-eyed Americana Neanderthal. It's bigger than any of you could possibly fathom." His lips curl into a wide, sly smile, and pauses before continuing in a loud whisper, "And if you kill me, then you'll never find out about the bomb." He gasps sarcastically and adds, " _Oops_. Spoilers."

Everyone in the room except for Michael either gasps, exclaims, _"A bomb?!"_ or curses loudly, with the exception of Dean, who does all three.

John stands to his feet and lends a hand to Dean, who takes it and stands up slowly.

 _"Where is it?!"_ Cas yells at Boris with another shove.

Boris laughs. "That's no fun, Castiel. Where's your sense of whimsy?"

Cas cracks him across the face again as a reply, and screams, _"WHERE IS IT?"_

Boris readjusts his jaw and sighs, then looks toward the ceiling and nods in the direction of an air conditioning vent.

Dean runs around what he is now referring to as a _Krushnic standoff_ , and grabs an office chair from under a desk, rolling it under the vent. "Dad, gimme a hand here."

John runs to the chair and steadies it while Dean steps on it, then stretches upward and removes the vent from the ceiling, handing it down to John, who tosses it on the floor.

Dean tries to lift himself into the ceiling to get to the bomb, but he's not tall enough.

"Here," John says. "Step on my shoulders."

Dean looks down at his father, incredulous. "Dad, I weigh two-hundred pounds and you just got your arm ripped out of its fucking socket, thanks to the totally useless mute douchebag over there who's too fucking busy threatening sororicide to _fucking help us_."

Michael rolls his eyes.

"Yeah," John retorts, "and you just got your kidney cut out of your body with a fucking knife, but there's a goddamn bomb in here so step on my shoulders or so help me god, I will take a crowbar to your fucking car."

"Jesus, _fine_." Dean holds on to the edge of the ceiling tile and steps on John's good shoulder, putting most of his weight on it until he can gently as possible climb up on to his other shoulder.

John bites back a loud groan of pain, which comes out as a noisy, wheezing breath.

"You okay?" Dean asks, looking down at him.

"Yeah," John chokes out in a clipped, tight voice, steadying his balance. "Used to put you on my shoulders you when you were a kid." John squeezes his eyes shut and his voice goes up an octave. "You've gotten a little bit heavier since then."

Dean peers into the ceiling and all the blood rushes out of his head. The fucker was absolutely right. There is a bomb, right in front of Dean's face, ticking down the seconds until the whole place goes up in smoke.

_02:53_

"Why did you put a fucking bomb in here?!" Cas shouts at Boris.

"Well, _obviously,_ " Boris replies, "this is an abortion clinic, and while I have no personal reservations against the practice, it always makes for a handy scapegoat. Secondly, on the off-chance your imbecile brothers _hadn't_ teamed up against me, the explosion would cover up the homicides. And lastly, it just makes everything so much more _exciting_ , doesn't it?" he asks with a grin.

"We got three minutes, Cas!" Dean shouts from the ceiling. "Dad, get me a pair of scissors or something."

John, grimacing in pain, looks at Charlie and nods.

Without taking her gun away from Boris's head, Charlie looks around the small office for a pair of scissors and locates one, then hands it to John, who uses his good arm to lift it up to Dean.

_01:57_

Dean stares at the bomb and gulps. It's big, taking up the entire vent, with red numbers in the middle of it reminding Dean that this isn't a fucking exam, or a fucking engine, but a fucking _bomb_ , which he now has to find a way to defuse.

He takes a deep breath. It's just a bomb. It's just a machine. Dean knows machines. He knows engines and computers and the human brain. This is what he _does_. He takes things apart to figure out how they work and put them back together again. He fixes what's broken and he makes things better. He's Dean fucking Winchester, goddammit, and he will defuse this bomb if it's the last thing he fucking does.

Which it just might be, he reminds himself.

He reaches forward, leaning his chest against the ceiling tile for balance, and carefully slips a cover off what he assumes is the console of the bomb, just like the dashboard in a car.

Dean can barely reach it though, and he has to stretch. As he stretches for it, he feels a stitch pop.

Then another.

He cries out in pain and squeezes his eyes shut to keep himself steady, focused, so that he doesn't faint or fall off of his dad's shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, he opens his eyes again.

_01:15_

Dean uses the ends of the scissors to unscrew another plate off the bomb. It comes off to expose a jumbled net of colored wiring. He recognizes this; it looks like a car starter.

He gently pulls a handful of wires out and realizes that it's not really like a car starter at all, rather an intricate deadly roadmap of lines that appear to lead nowhere and everywhere at the same time, like tangled Christmas tree lights or the central fucking nervous system.

Taking his time, he tediously sifts through the wires and makes mostly uneducated guesses about what each one might do, then finally narrows his options down to two wires: a green one and a blue one.

The bomb starts beeping every five seconds.

_00:27_

With his eyes, Dean traces a path from the beginning of each wire to the end. They both appear to start and end at the same place, but Dean knows that one of them will likely set off the bomb if cut, and one will disengage it.

The beeps quicken to every other second.

_00:19_

He holds both of the wires in his hand and examines them, willing his brain to move faster, make connections, remember everything he knows about bomb engineering, which he now realizes is astonishingly little.

Below him, Dean hears Boris say, "You're just like me, Castiel. You were born in fire, you've lived in fire, and you're going to die in fire. We are not men who have the privilege of knowing respite."

_00:12_

Intelligence has never been Dean's thing. That's always been Sam's gig, reading and learning and holding information like a sponge. Dean is good at figuring things out using common sense and gut instincts. He's succeeded in life on work ethic and a give-'em-hell attitude alone.

The bomb beeps every second.

_00:06_

He stares at the green and blue wires, hovering the scissors open in his trembling hand, his heart thrumming loud and fast in his ears. His mouth is dry. He can feel blood trickling down his legs. He's in blinding amounts of pain and he's pretty sure most of his internal organs are going to spill out onto the floor before this bomb even has a chance to go off.

The bomb is beeping at him rapidly, twice per second.

_00:04_

He thinks of Cas's eyes, the beautiful blue of the ocean or the sky depending on his mood, and how both those images are so reflective of him: vast and mysterious, deep and expansive. Castiel is made up of the extremes of the human condition.

_00:03_

He thinks of his own green eyes, and how it doesn't matter what Cas's life has been up to this point, Dean loves him, and Dean is always going to love him.

_00:02_

The beeping has become so fast that it's just a sharp, loud trill of noise echoing in the chamber of the air conditioning vent.

Like every major decision in life, Dean goes with his gut, and right now, his gut is telling him that no matter what, he will always stand in the fire with Cas.

Even if it burns him.

_00:01_

Dean cuts the green wire.


	25. Chapter 10: Cas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might recognize someone in this chapter.
> 
> Thank you as always to Michaela Grey for her flawless, immediate beta-ing.

"We got three minutes, Cas!" Dean yells, muffled and echoing through the duct in the ceiling.

There is nothing Cas can do in three minutes.

He would like to be in Dean's arms if these are his last moments alive, but currently, Dean is their only hope of survival, so Cas chooses the next best thing.

He socks Romanov in the gut.

Boris wheezes and chokes. "What the bloody hell was that for?!"

Cas cracks him across the face.

After blinking it off and shaking his head, Boris looks Cas in the eye and smiles, breathless, blood streaking over his mouth and teeth. "Oh, Castiel. Is this how your therapist taught you to handle these kinds of situations?"

The bomb starts beeping every few seconds.

Cas raises his fist again, says, "No," then slams it down across Boris's jaw, breaking the skin of his knuckles in the process, and adds through gritted teeth, _"Your son did."_

"Cas?" Charlie asks carefully. "You gotta stop this. You can't just beat the shit out of Romanov. I know... I know he hurt you and all, but it's not right."

Cas ignores her.

The smirk is still plastered across Boris's bloodied face. "My son was wrong about you."

Cas pulls him forward and shoves him against the wall.

The beeping gets faster.

"Romanov," Gabe warns. "Do _not_ taunt my brother. There is no way it can end well."

Boris cackles. "We're two minutes away from a bomb blowing up this entire city block! I'll say whatever the hell I want." He grins at Cas and continues, "Rostik said you were _good_ and that you were _kind_. He also said you were dull-witted, which I can see because you're beating me to a bloody pulp without ever asking yourself _why_. So you saw my face in that fire. You don't know why I was there. You don't know why your brothers work for me. You don't know how my son found you and picked your pathetic, flea-bitten ass off the street. But I know, Castiel. I know all of it. I know every minute of your life. I know the names of everyone you've ever fucked. Everyone you've ever fucking _spoken to_. I know about the havoc you wrought in prison. I know your favorite foods, your favorite colors, the name of your cologne, how much you tip, how you take your coffee."

Cas stares him down, wide-eyed and filled to the tipping point with wrath.

"But most of all, Castiel," Boris adds, quieter, "I know how you see yourself. I know what's inside of you. There is nothing in you but a black pit of anger, hatred, and madness. You aren't a person, Castiel. You're just the shattered remnants of the little boy who loved Afanasy Bugayev with all of your sad, pathetic heart, and who would never feel his love in return."

The room spins as Cas squeezes his eyes shut, clenches his jaw, and thuds his head against Boris's chest, trying to get a grip on himself as he belts out a pitiful sob. Tears fall from his eyes while he tries to catch his breath, the pain escaping him as his heart explodes in his chest.

Behind his eyelids, he sees Alfie, face contorted, not in anger or confusion, but in disgust, as he looks at Cas – armed only with his heart in his hand – and shoves him to the ground, shattering him, along with his hopes and dreams.

A shadow named Boris Romanov looms over the memory now. It looms over Cas's whole life.

Castiel's entire existence has been held in the palm of the man currently at his fingertips.

Slowly, Cas raises his head and breathes deep, calm washing over him, face set in stone. He stares Boris in the eyes.

The beeping is rapid.

Ever-smiling, Boris says, "You're just like me, Castiel. You were born in fire, you've lived in fire, and you're going to die in fire. We are not men who have the privilege of knowing respite."

Boris is right. He will not know respite in these last moments, and neither will Cas.

Cas raises his hands up to Boris's neck and gently wraps them around his throat, thumbs pressed square against his Adam's apple.

He squeezes hard, sneering, constricting Boris's throat with all his strength.

"Cas!" Charlie screams, gun pointed at Cas instead of at Boris. "You can't just kill a man because you're angry at him! He deserves to be tried for his crimes like everyone else!"

"You really can't kill him, Cas," Gabe agrees.

"He deserves to go to prison," Anna calmly pleads.

The beeping turns into a sharp whirring noise.

Boris's eyes are bloodshot, bulging out of his head, unseeing, while gurgling noises come out of his throat. He fights against Cas, but Cas has him firm in his grip.

Just another tiny bit of pressure, and he'll crush Boris's larynx. The shadow will be gone from his life for a blissful split second before he meets death, and in that beautiful moment, he will finally see light.

Suddenly, the beeping stops.

Everything is quiet.

Then Cas hears Dean sigh in relief and step down from John's shoulders. When he reaches the ground, Dean says, "Whoa, Cas, what are you _doing_?"

Cas ignores him. His heart is pounding. The room is spinning. He breathes shallow breaths filled with fire. All he can see are Boris's eyes, red and watering as he claws at Cas's forearms.

Dean approaches him and gently puts a hand on Cas's shoulder. "Cas," is all he says, not urgent or angry or scared. It's the way Dean always utters Cas's name: with openness, understanding, and unconditional love.

Cas remembers back to that night which feels like years ago, when Dean finally stood up to his father. _"I raised myself better than that."_

Their emotional abandonment is their common thread. It's what ties them together. Dean rose above it, stronger and wiser for it. He didn't let it destroy him. He put the fire out.

Dean is blissful, soothing, calming water. He is the respite that Boris thinks Cas doesn't have. He is Cas's light, the man who can guide Cas through the shadows, who can destroy the darkness of the Boris Romanovs in the world with his infinite kindness and patience and love.

But Cas can't put his own fire out. He can only make it worse. Cas is made of fire; he has been destroyed by it and so he destroys in turn, a whirlwind of chaos and pain that accumulates into a black hole of empty despair where his shattered heart resides.

Cas can't stop. He needs to end it. He needs to end Boris Romanov's reign right now, so he can't destroy anyone else like he's destroyed Cas.

But, Cas suddenly realizes, that's not his decision to make.

He thinks that maybe he raised himself better than that, too.

Cas's face softens, and he lets go of Boris, taking a step back and immediately turning into Dean's chest. He buries himself in his hands and lets loose the dam of tears, choking on sobs that are racing to be released from his tired, tortured soul.

Dean wraps his arms around Cas.

Boris, bent forward, heaves and gasps for air.

"Shh." Dean holds Cas tight against him and kisses the top of his head, then presses his cheek against it. "It's okay now, Cas. Everything's okay."

"Excuse me," Anna tells Gabe and Michael. "I have an arrest to make." She finally puts her guns back into their holsters, and Gabe and Michael lower their guns too, looking glum and guilty.

Michael punches Gabriel on the arm and jerks his head in the direction of Cas and Anna.

 _"Ugh,"_ Gabe sighs. "Sorry. Or whatever. For threatening to kill you. I guess."

Michael rolls his eyes and punches him again.

"It's fine," Anna replies as she grabs Boris's shoulder and spins him around. With Charlie's gun following his head, Anna shoves Boris against the wall and cuffs him. "To be fair, I threatened to kill you too."

"Oh good, we're square then," Gabe adds.

Charlie picks up the phone to dial her boss.

"Whoa there, ginger FBI lady," Gabriel says, hands up and backing to the door. "You call in the dogs and Mikey and I will both get put down."

Charlie stares at Anna, who looks back at her, lips pursed. Anna hesitates, then shrugs, and quietly says, "I won't tell if you won't, Bradbury."

Pressing the last button, Charlie replies, "I don't know about you, but I'm pretty happy with taking down the head of the Russian mafia for one evening. I think we can skip out on a couple of chaotic neutral douchebags for the sake of family, even if they are international assassi– _heyyy_ , it's Bradbury, can I speak to the boss man please?"

***

The SWAT team, the bomb squad, a news crew in a helicopter, two ambulances, and a fire truck show up at the clinic.

Dean gets his stitches fixed in the ambulance and re-bandaged after yelling at the EMT that there is no way in hell he's going back to the hospital.

Once Boris is in the back of an armored vehicle, after having been searched and chained up in every way possible, Cas runs to Anna and kisses her on each cheek, and they hug each other tightly for a long time. When Anna finally lets go, she tells Cas, "I was thinking about taking a hiatus while I'm here. Do you know any place I could stay?"

"Yeah," Cas responds, grinning. "I think I know someone who'll take us in."

While John is giving his statement, Dean is waiting in the parking lot of the clinic, sitting on the trunk of the Impala when Cas walks up to him. "Turns out the clinic was next door to the hotel," Dean says. "I snuck back into our room and got our stuff."

Cas has a bright orange blanket around his shoulders and a cup of hot chocolate in his hand, which he hands to Dean while he hops up on the back of the Impala too, and wraps the blanket around both of their shoulders.

Dean takes a sip and says, "Still not as good as Hoth Chocolate," and hands it back to Cas.

Cas rests his head on Dean's shoulder.

"Hey, you okay?" Dean asks softly, then kisses the top of Cas's head and holds out his hand for Cas to take.

Cas shrugs and threads his fingers between Dean's. "Yeah. I guess."

They sit in peaceful silence while lights whirl around and people in uniforms run back and forth between various noise-making vehicles and the clinic. The sky begins to glow orange on the horizon.

John approaches the Impala, looks up at Dean and says, "They told us we could leave. Ready to go home now?"

Charlie runs after him. "John! Hey, real quick, my boss wanted to talk to you."

"I already gave my statement," John replies.

"Yeah, I know, but... she just wants to ask you something."

A middle-aged woman wearing a Kevlar vest, a long black coat, and a ridiculous, wide-brimmed hat atop sweeping, wavy black hair approaches John, and holds out her hand. In a thick, Spanish accent, she says, "Mr. Winchester, it's a pleasure to meet you."

 John looks her up and down and smiles, sly, taking her hand. "John, please."

She smiles back, tight-lipped, and replies, " _Mr. Winchester_... my name is Katarina Arnez, and I just have a couple questions to ask you."

"Sure. Anything," John says, cocky grin across his face.

Dean rolls his eyes and makes a mental note to mention this to his future therapist.

"What do you do?" she asks.

"I'm a mechanic."

She writes down a note on her clipboard. "And before that?"

"I was in the minor leagues."

Katarina looks up from her notes. "Excuse me?"

"Baseball," John clarifies, then points to his shoulder as if that explains it.

She nods and jots down another note, then takes a card from the top of the clipboard and hands it to John. "We have an opening. Bradbury needs a partner."

John looks down at the card and back up to Katarina, confused. "Don't I need a degree or something for that?"

"We take..." Katarina looks John up and down, lips twitching up in a small smile, " _experience_ into consideration for our applicants. I strongly encourage you to apply, Mr. Winchester."

She turns away from him and walks over to Dean and Cas, then hands them a card too. "Bradbury tells me you need a way to stay in the US. Give me a call when you get home and I'll see if I can pull some strings, get you an asylee visa to extend your stay here. You are gay, yes?"

They both nod.

"I'll see what I can do for you boys." She reaches up and caresses the side of Dean's face, her own face etched in sympathy, before walking away from them, winking at John as she heads back into the fray.

John turns and looks at the three of them, dumbfounded. "What the fuck was that?"

Charlie squeals, and John covers his ears. "What the fuck was _that?"_ he asks, shaking his finger in his ear.

"She does that," Cas tells him.

"Might wanna get used to it. Looks like you guys are gonna be good pals here soon," Dean adds.

Charlie runs to John and wraps her arms around him, and John stands there, looking stunned and confused.

Cas turns to Dean. "Even if I get asylee status, we can still get married, right?"

 _"What?!"_ John exclaims.

Dean ignores his dad and lifts Cas's hand to kiss the back of it. "I didn't even know you said yes."

"Of course I did. It was just in Russian. You know, you should really know more Russian by now, Dean. We've been together three whole weeks," Cas says with a grin.

Dean leans in and kisses the grin off his face.

"Jesus fucking Christ," John groans, Charlie still hugging him. "You two are getting married, I just got invited to apply to the fucking FBI, we all almost died for the second time in a fucking week, and now there's a hyperactive fed... _hugging_ me."

Charlie lets go and grins up at him.

Dean and Cas separate and grin at him too.

John runs his fingers through his hair, and lets out a loud breath. "Well, it's been a hell of a damn night. Let's go home now."

Charlie retrieves Anna from the horde of FBI agents asking her questions about being SVR, and they all pile in the Impala to head back home.

"Wait a minute," John begins while pulling onto the highway. "Are all of you planning on staying in my fucking house?"

They all reply in the affirmative.

John sighs loudly, exasperated. _"Goddammit."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katarina, of course, is our favorite Peruvian femdom pimp bar-owner from [Sex 101.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1467634/chapters/3092755)
> 
> The story's not over yet! You've made it this far. Just a few more chapters to go.
> 
> PS I made a twitter. You are welcome to [follow me.](https://twitter.com/betty_days)


	26. Chapter 11: Dean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a surprise for you at the end of this chapter! *grins mischievously*
> 
> (This is the last plotty chapter. We have two epilogues coming up!)

Charlie passes out in the passenger seat on the drive home while John drives in silence. Dean stares out the window in the back holding Cas's hand, and Cas and Anna speak animatedly in Russian the entire time.

Dean wishes he could understand what the hell they're saying, because Cas is using a lot of hand gestures and grinning like an idiot and it's fucking adorable. There's one point where Cas whispers something to Anna – as though whispering really makes a damn difference – and they both look at Dean for a moment while giggling conspiratorially to each other.

Dean falls asleep on Cas's shoulder at some point and wakes up to his father saying, "Home again, home again, jiggity jig," sounding gruff and tired. It's something he has said every time they've gotten home from somewhere more than twenty minutes away.

Normally, Dean finds all his dad's stupid sayings and horrible puns and bad jokes annoying, but now he kind of... likes them.

Dean has always loved his father, but now he thinks he might finally be starting to like John Winchester, as a whole person instead of a dad.

All five of them get in the house and John sinks down onto the couch, followed by Charlie and Anna.

Dean and Cas stand across the coffee table from them, and Dean can almost _hear_ the telepathic conversation Cas is having with Charlie.

 _"Oh,”_ Charlie says with a gasp. She claps John on and Anna on the shoulders. "Well! I feel like I could eat the left half of a menu, so how about the three of us go get some breakfast?"

John glares at her. "Knock yourself out."

Anna rests her head on the back of the couch, eyes closed. "Sleep now. Food later."

Charlie pops up from the couch, giving Dean and Cas an apologetic glance, before spinning around and picking up the car keys from the coffee table. "C'mon, guys, let's go! The Hasty Tasty is just down the street and they have the best biscuits and gravy in the world." She tugs on John's arm, but John doesn't budge.

"Charlie," John drawls, eyes closed. "Nap time. Go away."

"Winchester," she hisses at him. "I am _very serious_ that we need to go get breakfast _right now_ and be gone _for a while_." She kicks his boot to emphasize her point.

Anna opens her eyes and looks at Cas, finally understanding. "Oh! Yes, Charlie, let's go have breakfast."

"No," John grumbles.

"Suit yourself. But uhh..." She looks down and shuffles her feet. "I don't think you're gonna be getting much sleep."

John gripes, then furrows his brow, and, when realization finally hits, opens his eyes wide. _"Ohhh."_ Then he leans forward, buries his head in his hands, and mumbles, "Oh _come on, man._ Can't a guy catch a fucking break around here?"

Charlie heaves John up by his arm and spins him toward the door, saying, "Yes, a guy can get a ' _fucking_ break' but that guy right now is your son. So let's mosey on out of here and give our dramatic, gay little love birds some privacy."

John gets shoved out the door, groaning, followed by Charlie, then followed by Anna, who closes the door behind her with a wave and a wink at Cas.

Dean stares at the door. "I don't think that had to be nearly as awkward as it was."

Cas sighs and shrugs. "She tries."

Dean nods.

For the first time since they met, an awkward silence hangs over them. They've never had time on their side before this moment. They've never had anything on their side, really.

"Where's Sam?" Cas asks, breaking the silence.

"Jess's, I'm guessing," Dean replies.

Cas nods.

"So," they both say at the same time.

Dean turns to Cas and wraps his arms around him, sighing contentedly.

Arms around Dean's waist, Cas asks, muffled in Dean's neck, "What should we do now?"

"I should probably take a shower. There's a lot of... blood... kind of... everywhere."

Cas reluctantly pulls away and gives Dean a chaste kiss on the lips. "Yeah, okay."

***

Dean's massive, gaping wounds are as dressed as they're going to get, so he steps in the shower and lets all the dried blood wash off of him.

A few minutes later, midway through whistling the chorus of "Folsom Prison Blues," the bathroom door opens.

Dean stops whistling. "Cas?"

The curtain opens suddenly and Dean jumps.

Cas grins at him. "May I join you?"

"May you– what the hell are you doing?"

Cas narrows his eyes. "Bra shopping. What does it look like I'm doing?" Then he steps into the tub, naked, and sweeps his gaze up and down Dean's body, devouring him with his eyes.

"Dude, invasion of privacy here! I'm trying to take a shower!"

"Would you like me to leave?" Cas asks, playful smile spreading across his face.

Dean hesitates before smiling back and blushing while he looks at his feet, trying his damnedest not to gape at Cas's perfect, muscular body. "No."

"Good." Cas gracefully spins them around so that he's under the water and Dean isn't.

"Hey, fuck you," Dean tells him, suddenly cold.

Cas puts his head under the fixture and lets the water fall over him. "Please."

Dean opens his mouth to reply but has no response to that.

"Have you never taken a shower with anyone, Dean?"

Dean sighs. This is it, he thinks. It's finally time to have this conversation. "Well, no."

Cas opens his eyes and stares at him.

Dean continues, "I've never really..." He shrugs and looks away, face on fire from more than just the steam of the shower. "...done... anything. With anyone."

Bam. There it is. Big secret _numero dos_. Dean is as pure as freshly fallen snow.

"You're _kidding._ " Cas gapes. "But you're so... hot. Like... sweet _Moses_ , absurdly fucking hot."

Dean shrugs again, face flushed, and tries very hard to continue not to stare at Cas's insanely sexy body, streams of water trailing down his perfect, pale form. "Made out with a couple girls. Wasn't my thing. Their mouths are just... really small. Made out with a guy once too. Balthazar. In high school. He was in the closet with me. Literally and figuratively, because we made out in a closet." When he looks back up, Cas is beaming at him. "What?"

"I've never really done anything with anyone before either. You know, that didn't involve coercion of some sort." Cas steps closer to Dean and presses their bodies together, hot and wet, and turns them so that they're both in the stream of the water.

Dean can feel every inch of Cas's skin against his own, and finally leans in to kiss him, warm water falling over their bodies as Dean presses Cas against the tile wall of the shower, bracing his hand against the wall and sweeping his other arm around Cas's lower back, pulling him in closer.

Cas moans into Dean's mouth as Dean peppers small kisses across his lower lip and sinks his teeth into it, pulling gently and sucking.

Putting his leg between Cas's, Dean adjusts himself so that he's rock hard and rutting slowly against Cas's hip, moving down from his lips to his neck and biting down, sucking Cas's flesh between his teeth and grabbing his ass to push their hips together.

Their cocks are lined up and sliding against each other, and Cas is panting in Dean's ear, letting out tiny whimpers of intense pleasure, then gently pushes Dean away from him.

Dean stops and looks at Cas, whose eyes are blown wide with lust, lip between his teeth in an expression of pure desire. Breathless, he pants, "Dean. Shower first. Sex second."

With a sly smile, Dean replies, "If you  insist," reaching to the shower caddie and grabbing a bottle of shampoo. "Hold out your hand."

The rest of the shower is spent giving each other shampoo mohawks and giggling, kissing at random, and washing away the tragedy of their pasts.

***

Dean stands in front of his dresser, fluffy white towel around his waist, staring into the drawer at his pajama options. "Okay, your choices are red flannel, blue flannel, puppies, or Teenage Mutant–"

Cas steps behind Dean and wraps his arms around his waist, pressing kisses against the backs of his shoulders as he reaches around and un-tucks the towel from itself, letting it fall to the ground.

He trails his fingers down Dean's hipbones and pulls him in so that his dick is up against Dean's ass.

Dean is immediately, painfully hard, and it's made even worse when Cas sucks Dean's earlobe between his teeth and growls, grinding slowly against Dean. He rumbles something in Russian in Dean's ear, voice impossibly deep.

Dean grips the dresser and bites back a moan. Voice tight, he asks, "What does that mean?"

"It means..." Cas reaches around and runs a finger up the bottom of Dean's cock, barely grazing it, but enough that Dean intakes a sharp breath. _"May I please fuck you now, Dean?"_

Dean can't choke back the gasp that escapes him when he hears those words.

Cas nips at his shoulders, still slowly pushing against Dean's ass, roving his hands over Dean's hips and thighs until Dean has to shut his eyes and grit his teeth to keep from fucking into air.

Finally, Dean spins around and takes Cas's face between his hands, kissing him ferociously, biting and sucking and pulling at Cas's lips, fingers threaded in his still-wet hair, sweeping his tongue into Cas's mouth and pushing him backward toward the bed.

Cas falls against the mattress and props himself up on his elbows, lifting his legs to shift himself higher onto the bed while he stares into Dean's eyes seductively, lower lip caught between his teeth and smirking like the sexy bastard he is, and Dean can't take another fucking second of looking without touching.

Dean crawls up the bed, trailing kisses up Cas's thighs until he reaches his slender hips and nips at them, licking over the protruding bone surrounded by lithe, rippling muscle. If Cas smells like sunshine, then he tastes like pure grace, and Dean could spend a lifetime exploring Cas's body with his eyes and hands and lips.

Cas writhes underneath Dean, gasping when Dean bites down and whining when Dean licks up, teasing the delicate expanse of skin around Cas's cock, hard and leaking onto his stomach.

 _"Dean,”_ Cas heaves.

"Yeah, baby?" Dean asks, kissing Cas's navel and slowly grazing his hand up and down Cas's thigh, nails trailing gently behind his fingertips.

Cas replies in Russian, and Dean huffs a laugh.

"Babe, you gotta translate for me." He roves his hand up the inside of Cas's leg, gliding up his sack and, in playful vengeance, teases his cock by grazing his index finger from base to tip, and blowing on the head.

Cas's dick jumps and leaks out another pearly bead of cum while Cas speaks in fervent Russian.

"I'm just going to take that as 'stop,' okay?" Dean teases, sitting up on his knees, unable to hide the corners of his lips twitching up in victory.

Cas stares at Dean, wild, and sits up too, taking Dean by the waist with strong hands and pulling him down onto his side, smothering him in frantic kisses as Cas climbs on top of him and slides his body between Dean's legs.

"Dean," Cas groans against Dean's neck. "Wanted this..." He reaches down and lightly touches Dean's cock with his fingertips. Dean arches his back and moans at the touch. "...for _so long_."

"How long, baby?" Dean bites out, clawing at Cas's back as Cas takes Dean's cock in hand and strokes it, loose and slow, filthy and slicked with Dean's cum.

"Years, Dean." Cas licks a stripe up Dean's neck and kisses up his jawline. "Dreamt about this every day."

"God, _Cas,"_ Dean hisses. He reaches over to his bedside table and pulls out the drawer, grabbing lube and a box of condoms and tossing them on the bed.

Cas pulls away and searches Dean's eyes. "Are you sure, Dean? Are you going to be okay with the..." He trails off, gesturing around Dean's bandages.

"I'll be fine, Cas." He picks up the bottle and shoves it in Cas's hands. "But if you don't fuck me right now I'm gonna go crazy."

Cas smiles down at him and uncaps the lid, applying a generous amount of lube to his fingers before leaning down and kissing Dean, deep and slow, reaching up behind Dean's sack and coaxing his fingers around Dean's hole.

Dean spreads his legs open and Cas rubs his entrance in slow circles before pressing in gently with one finger up to his first knuckle.

Dean cries out, and Cas pauses, waiting for Dean to loosen up before pressing in further.

"God, Dean, you're so tight," Cas growls into Dean's mouth, forming loose, sloppy kisses onto Dean's lips.

Cas pulls away and watches Dean intently as he works him open, sliding the rest of his index finger inside him, then pulling out and pushing back in rhythmically.

"Another," Dean chokes out.

Cas pulls out and rubs two fingers around Dean's hole, pressing them both in slowly.

It burns, but it's a good burn, like when Dean's shoulder is sore after the first baseball game of the season.

Leaning down, Cas wraps his lips around Dean's nipple, circling it with his tongue, which makes Dean reach up to grab the pillow behind his head. "Jesus, Cas."

Cas bites down on Dean's nipple at the same moment he crooks his fingers up and grazes Dean's prostate.

Dean bucks his hips and shouts.

Cas murmurs words Dean doesn't understand in his kisses, scissoring his fingers up and down to open Dean wider.

 _"Please,"_ Dean gasps, unable to do anything other than beg, plead for more of Cas, for as much as Cas can possibly give him.

Cas inserts a third finger, slowly, coaxing his hole to open wider. "You're so beautiful when you're like this, Dean. Unraveling underneath me. I could do this forever."

Dean rocks back onto Cas's fingers, plunging them deeper inside of him, and Cas huffs a laugh.

"Eager?" he asks, voice low against Dean's ear.

"Ready," Dean pants, wrecked. "Please, Cas. _Please_."

"Are you sure?" Cas asks before pressing up against Dean's sweet spot again, making Dean yell, _"FUCK!"_

Dean nods urgently, whimpering, bottom lip between his teeth and eyes squeezed shut, gripping the pillow behind his head so tight his knuckles are turning white.

Cas gets on his knees between Dean's legs and rips open the condom, rolling it over himself and lining his dick up, pressing lightly against Dean's entrance and rubbing his cock in circles against it.

Dean's stomach is drenched in cum, and it rolls off of him and onto the sheets.

Cas continues sliding against Dean's entrance, teasing him, then leans down and whispers, "Are you sure you want this, Dean? You want me to be your first? The first person to open you up, look down at your beautiful face while I fuck into your virgin hole? Are you sure you want that?"

Beyond words, Dean opens his eyes and pleads to Cas with just a look, nodding and heaving breaths.

Finally, Cas presses into him, slow and shallow, then pulls back out, and presses back in further. "Fuck, Dean," Cas groans. "So fucking tight."

A few more pushes and Cas bottoms out, holding still while Dean relaxes around him.

Softly, Cas whispers, "Okay?"

Dean nods, feeling for the first time in his life blissfully complete.

When Cas stays frozen in place, Dean growls out, _"Move."_

Cas finally pulls out and pushes back in, agonizingly slow, until Dean loosens enough that Cas quickens his pace, rocking into Dean faster and faster.

Dean scrapes and grabs and presses Cas closer to him, kissing him everywhere his mouth can reach and babbling. "C'mon, baby. Fuck me. _Hard_ ," he hears himself say, and Cas lets out a cracked sob, driving harder into Dean, finally finding that perfect angle and pressing upward against Dean's prostate, grazing it with the head of his cock over and over again.

 _"Harder_ ," Dean demands, threading his fingers in Cas's hair and gripping it tight, exposing Cas's neck and pulling him down to suck marks against his throat. "Wanna feel it tomorrow. Wanna feel it for a week. C'mon, baby, give me all you've got."

Cas mutters incoherently in Russian, face a mask of euphoria as he grasps Dean's cock in his hand and pumps with a loose fist in time with his quick, hard thrusts, slicking his shaft up and down, coating it with Dean's cum that continues leaking out of him in a steady stream of pure want.

Amongst the Russian babbling, Dean thinks he understands the words, "Close," and "Dean."

A familiar tight coil burns in the pit of Dean's stomach as he nods.

Suddenly, Cas opens his eyes and looks down at Dean, nothing behind them but the purest expression of love Dean has ever seen.

Panting and fucking into Dean with abandon, hips stuttering, Cas groans, "I love you, Dean."

Dean gasps, hanging at the precipice for a blissful second which feels like eternity, staring into Cas's eyes, and drowning in the beautiful fire behind them. At last, he comes with a wail, white hot streaks coating his stomach and chest.

Dean clenches around Cas as the waves of his orgasm continue to crash over him, and Cas screams his name, driving sharp thrusts of his hips while he spills into Dean, hot and hard and fast.

Finally, Cas slows and hangs over him, hands on either side of his body, forehead and chest glistening with sweat, and catches his breath.

Dean pulls him in for a slow, deep kiss, languid and relaxed while Cas carefully slips out and falls to his side next to him. When their eyes meet, Dean searches them, a wide smile spreading across his face as he caresses Cas's cheek with his hand. "I love you too, Cas."

***

Sam Winchester is very glad that his brother and father are alive, especially after watching the news last night.

But as Sam lay in bed, pillow over his face while the bright morning sun streams in through his window, he wishes more than anything that he could go back in time and somehow un-hear everything he just heard on the other side of the paper-thin wall separating his bedroom from his older brother's.

Sam isn't sure what the hell happened this past week, but he'd be willing to bet a lot of money that he has now endured the most trauma out of anyone involved in this whole goddamn situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations. You have survived Dean losing his virginity. Let us all bask in the glory of popping Dean Winchester's cherry. 
> 
> [Here, have a t-shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/daysdesign/works/12178581-i-survived-dean-winchesters-gay-virginity?p=t-shirt) (or sticker, pillow, or tote bag).
> 
> I'm sorry I can't give them out for free, but I'm going to try to do the next best thing, which is donate all proceeds of this shirt to [Daybreak](http://www.daybreakdayton.org/), a shelter for homeless and runaway youth. In other words, it's a place a person in Cas's abusive situation can find safety, and an integral non-profit organization in my community.
> 
> If you want to keep up with the donation proceeds, please follow me on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days). As always, if you have any questions, feel free to [shoot me an ask](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Oh, and I made an [Infinite Points for Gay](http://www.redbubble.com/people/daysdesign/works/12188216-infinite-points-for-gay?p=t-shirt) shirt too. Please let me know if you want either design on some other medium RedBubble provides. Thank you to cryingneedforthat for inciting this concept.


	27. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's tie up all these loose ends, shall we?

**Three Months Later**

Dean walks into his house, sweaty and muddy, wearing an orange Bobcats Baseball t-shirt and a ball cap. He looks around.

John is lying on the couch, oddly clad in a black suit and tie with a fedora over his face, snoring soundly. His feet are across Charlie's lap – who is wearing a matching suit, tie, and fedora – and her laptop is propped up on John's shins.

"What the hell are you guys supposed to be?" Dean asks.

Without looking up from her laptop, Charlie pulls out a billfold from her breast pocket and hands it to Dean.

Dean opens it. It's her FBI badge, but there's a piece of masking tape over it with sharpie scrawled on it that reads _CIA_.

"You're FBI agents who are going to a Halloween party as CIA agents," Dean infers, handing Charlie her badge.

From under the hat, John replies, "Yep."

Dean huffs a laugh and bends down to unlace his baseball cleats.

The bathroom door flies open and Anna runs out, clad in obnoxiously high heels, silver sparkling booty shorts, a bikini top, and white fluffy wings. "What the _fuck_ , Sam?"

Sam, sitting at the dining room table, looks up from his laptop. "What?"

"Don't give me that fucking puppy dog stare. You used my hair oil again! That shit's expensive!"

Sam smirks. "No I didn't."

Anna points to his hair. "Yes, you fucking did! Look how beautiful and shiny your fucking hair is!"

Turning back to his laptop and flipping his hair, Sam replies, "It's naturally like this. You're just jealous."

Anna rolls her eyes and says, "Yeah, right."

Charlie closes her laptop and nudges John's legs off of her. "Excuse me, Winchester, I need to go save your son from the wrath of my incredibly hot, Russian spy girlfriend."

John tucks in his legs and Charlie stands up to cross the room. She wraps her arms around Anna's neck and pouts. "It's just a little hair oil, babe. I'll buy you more."

Anna scoffs and chews on her lip, then a smile reluctantly spreads across her face and she grins down at Charlie. "I guess you're right."

"Of course I am." Charlie grins back, and leans in to press a chaste kiss to Anna's lips, which quickly derails into something much heavier.

Sam stares at them, mouth agape.

John lifts his hat from his face, looks at Sam, and clears his throat. "Quit staring, son. They're not here for you to ogle." Then he puts his head down and his hat back over his face.

Dean sets his muddy cleats by the front door, smirking in amusement, and stands to see Cas storming out of his bedroom clad only in a pair of red sparkling booty shorts, matching Anna's silver ones.

Cas stares in irritation at Anna and Charlie, tongues down each other's throats while Sam has his hand up, hiding his face from them and blushing furiously. Cas says, "You don't have time to fuck. We're going to be late for my gay Halloween party, and it's going to be a shit-storm of angry, mostly genderqueer LGBTQA Alliance members if their beloved queen is not fashionably punctual."

Without letting go of each other, Anna and Charlie simultaneously lift their middle fingers at Cas.

Cas scoffs and finally notices Dean in the entryway. He grins, gliding over to him and wrapping his arms around Dean's neck, pulling him in for a quick kiss. "How was your game?"

Dean grins back, hands on Cas's hips. "They did great. And it was adorable."

Cas kisses Dean again and asks, "Well, they have a good coach. Who won?"

"They're five years old, Cas. We don't usually keep score in tee-ball. Everybody wins." As it turns out, getting stabbed in the back and losing a kidney meant no one was pissed at Dean for quitting baseball, and he was able to strike a deal with the athletic director at school to let him keep his scholarship by helping out with administrative stuff now and again. No baseball also meant that Dean had a lot more time on his hands, so he said as much in passing to Bobby, who mentioned that he always wanted to sponsor a Little League team in the community. Dean jumped at the opportunity to coach it.

"'Everybody wins.' I like that." Still smiling, Cas breaks away and takes Dean's hand. "You have to get ready for the party though. We're running late."

"So I heard."

Dean follows Cas into his bedroom and closes the door behind them, finally able to express his undying love for Cas and his incredible, visually – and physically – appealing body. He crowds Cas's space and covers his face and neck in kisses. "I love you so much," he murmurs into Cas's neck, trailing his hands down and sliding his fingers into the elastic of Cas's shorts. "And you are so fucking sexy."

Cas bats him away. "Like I told Channa, no time for sex."

"Channa?"

"Charlie and Anna."

Dean nods. "Ah." Then he takes the more direct approach and leans down to nibble Cas's earlobe.

Cas melts into Dean's chest and groans, "You are pure evil."

Huffing a laugh, Dean murmurs into Cas's neck. "You're the one dressed as the devil."

Cas tries and fails to shove Dean away again, stifling a smile that creeps up his lips. "But you're all sweaty and gross."

Holding Cas's hips, Dean walks Cas back into a wall. "You like it when I'm sweaty and gross." He nips and bites at Cas's neck, and trails his hand lower down Cas's shorts, bringing his fingers gently up his dick, already half-hard.

 _"Dean,"_ Cas hisses as Dean starts slowly stroking his cock. "We don't have _time."_

Laughing in glee, Dean retorts, "You officially have asylee status. Baby, we have all the time in the world."

Cas melts into him again, finally relenting against Dean's playful pursuits, and drags Dean by the t-shirt to crush their mouths together.

Between frantic, devouring kisses, Cas says, "I predicted this would happen."

Dean raises his eyebrows and makes an _Mmm?_ noise against Cas's mouth. He reaches down to squeeze Cas's ass in his tiny little shorts because he can't fucking help it anymore. There's just something too goddamn sexy and oddly adorable about a flamboyant gay Russian who is also somehow a total badass in sparkling red shorts and rutting against Dean's hip like he's dying.

Dean moves down to Cas's neck to bathe it in tiny bites and sloppy kisses.

Panting, Cas says, "Tests came back... _oh god_... negative. I'm clean. And... _Dean_... ready. I just finished prepping myself before you–"

Cas doesn't have time to finish because Dean tears his shorts off in one fluid motion and Cas quickly steps out of them.

When Dean stands back up, he chucks his shirt off his head and unbuttons his pants, pulling out his cock and then lifting his hand to lick a wet stripe up his palm before jerking himself twice. He squats down and puts his arms between Cas's legs, lifting him up by the knees and pressing him against the wall.

Cas whimpers, and wraps his legs around Dean's waist and holds on tight, their chests pressed together and Cas's cock leaking and hard between their stomachs.

Dean reaches down to sink a finger into Cas and confirm that he is, in fact, ready, hole wet and open and slicked with lube, and he lines his own dick up to press into it.

It's their first time without a condom, and Dean almost comes as soon as he bottoms out.

It feels a million times more intense, and Dean is glad they're running late because there's no way in hell he'd last more than a few minutes anyway, with Cas's beautiful mouth panting against his, moaning in frantic Russian as Dean pumps steadily faster into him, maintaining an even pace to keep himself from coming because this feels too fucking good to stop just yet.

Cas threads his fingers through Dean's hair. "Dean," Cas gasps, "Already so close. Come inside me, Dean. Wanna feel you come in me."

 _"Fuck."_ Dean changes the angle of his hips to press against Cas's prostate and Cas has to bite down on Dean's shoulder not to shout. It's only a few more deep thrusts before Cas moans loudly, muffled by Dean's neck, as Cas comes between them, white heat coating both of their stomachs as Cas's ass clenches around Dean.

Dean's hips stutter and his thighs burn, and he only manages a few more thrusts before he's coming, so hard that he can't make any noise at all, holding his breath while he fills Cas up.

He gently slips out and slides Cas back down the wall onto his feet. "I think we both need to shower," he pants, breathless.

"Agreed," Cas replies, cheeks flushed, lips puffy and swollen, looking well-fucked and blissfully happy.

***

A half-hour later, they are _so_ late for the party, and Cas stares in the mirror, carefully gluing fake, red, glittery eyelashes to his real ones.

When he's done, he looks at his masterpiece, red horns atop his head, thick black eyeliner around his eyes, red glittering eye shadow on his eyelids. His entire costume consists of a bad attitude, tiny red shorts, and red high-top Chucks. He's going to freeze to death, but he doesn't really care. It's just the price one pays for a fantastic costume.

He wades through his lipstick options, wondering if he should go for _au naturel_ or dark red. "Lipstick or no?" Cas asks, pulling out his favorite candy apple shade and turning to Dean.

Cas's jaw drops, and he looks Dean up and down, slowly.

Dean is wearing nicely pressed black slacks, a burgundy button-up overshirt, and a skinny black tie. And dress shoes. Cas knows for a fact that Dean only owned three pairs of shoes not last week, so the entire outfit is really a shock for Cas's beloved oft-denim-clad ex-closet-case boyfriend.

"What are you supposed to be?" Cas asks.

Dean smirks and looks at his feet, looking sheepish. "Myself." He shrugs. "You know... for once."

Cas beams at him. "You look radiant."

Dean looks down at himself. "Really?"

"Yes," Cas replies, stepping toward Dean to kiss him, slow and deep, thankful he didn't put on any lipstick.

Dean gasps, breaking away. "I almost forgot something." He holds up a finger and goes to the bedside table to open it and rustle around. Then he pulls out a small, clear box with a flower in it.

"What's this?" Cas asks as Dean opens the box and takes out a short, dark red rose, surrounded by white sprigs of gypsophila.

Dean grins. "A corsage. Hold out your hand."

Cas does, and Dean slips the small elastic band around Cas's wrist.

Dean explains, "It's just a dumb tradition, but since you never got to go to any dances, and I don't even know what the Russian tradition is, I thought you might like... you know... a corsage."

"Oh, Dean," Cas says, touched. "I love it."

"And I have one more thing. Close your eyes."

Cas closes them and listens as Dean shifts around in the room. When everything stills, Dean says, "Okay, open them."

Opening his eyes, Cas blinks, not seeing anything different.

Then he looks down.

Dean is on one knee, black velvet box lifted up with a thin gold band inside it.

"I know you have a visa now and we're not really in a hurry but..." Dean takes a deep breath. "I'm in love with you. I'm so in love with you, just... every inch of who you are, there's no way I could love anyone on this planet as much as I love you. You are so wonderfully, unapologetically yourself, and I respect you, and admire you, for everything you've been through, and how much strength you have. I love you for your past and for your present, and I want to be there for you, with you, for every minute of your future. If you want me to be. I know you already said yes, so I really hope you didn't change your mind." He smiles wanly, eyes watering. "Will you marry me, Cas?"

Cas raises a hand to his mouth. "Oh, _Dean_."

Dean swallows audibly. "Is that a yes?"

 _"Конечно, этода!"_  Cas exclaims.

Dean huffs a laugh through his tears. "I'm trying, man, but I'm not that good at Russian yet."

"It means, 'Of course that's a yes!'" Cas replies, trying not to cry because then he'll just be a hot gay mess of eyeliner and red glitter.

Dean stands and wraps his arms around Cas's waist, pulling him in for a kiss.

When they break apart, Cas looks deep into Dean's eyes, reaching up and wiping the tears from his face, and says, _"Я люблютебя."_

Dean beams, looking so euphorically and beautifully happy, and Cas doesn't know how he got so lucky. "I know what that one means. You say it all the time when you think I can't hear you." He kisses Cas once more and adds quietly, staring back at Cas, lips hovering an inch away, "I love you too, Cas."

Cas smiles back at Dean, his future husband, the love of his life, his savior, and leans in the rest of the way to kiss him once more, because they have all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The next chapter is a teaser for the sequel, much like after the credits of Marvel movies. DO NOT READ IT IF YOU ARE A CLIFFHATER (a hater of cliffhangers... I'm so clever). It's not a prologue to the sequel, nor will it be in the sequel. It's just a set-up. 
> 
> If you continue, there's a way at the end of the chapter for us to stay in contact beyond the limited capacity of tumblr and twitter if you're interested.
> 
> UPDATE: I have no idea when the sequel will be written. As of Nov. 2014, I have not started it yet.


	28. Teaser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive, just... indescribable amount of thanks to [Michaela Grey](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela) for beta-ing this fic with aplomb. She fixed my grammar, figured out all the words I meant but happened to choose the wrong ones, added a million commas that would have otherwise been skipped, and generally made this entire fic a much more readable experience. I highly recommend reading her works because they are simply divine.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who found me on [tumblr](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/betty_days), befriended me, and supported me through this endeavor, replied to my ranting and my raving, [sent me asks](http://www.bettydays.tumblr.com/ask) and submits, and have generally made my life infinitely better. I love you all so, so much, and I am eternally grateful to you.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who kudosed, commented, bookmarked, subscribed, or even just read this fic from start to finish (and may have been too shy to do any of the aforementioned, which I completely understand).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has already, or intends to, promote this fic, by reviewing it, or sending the link to your friends, or posting it on twitter and tumblr. If you enjoyed the themes and morals (which are hard to find among dramatically interrupted weddings and car chases), please consider passing it along if you know someone who might enjoy it too. Maybe we can sell a couple t-shirts and donate some money to a good cause together.
> 
> I love you. I love you. I love you. And thank you all again.

Boris Romanov really hates the motherland.

He stares out the chain link fence toward the snowy expanse of absolute nothingness, and sighs.

Patience has never been one of his virtues, which is why there has yet to be a cage that can hold him.

He looks up. The fence is twenty meters high, electric barbed wire looped in circles around the top.

A guard watches him from a tower to his left. There are no fewer than five cameras trained on him, and everywhere he walks, a bubble of empty space follows him, the other prisoners keeping their distance, whispering among themselves in speculation of whether or not Boris Romanov is truly in their midst.

Boris will neither confirm nor deny it for them, and that's all the protection he needs.

He rather enjoys hearing whispered rumors of the legendary tales that may or may not be true.

It certainly helps soothe the burn of being fucked over by the Krushnic clan, who only managed to be successful in their endeavor of capturing him because they are such a pathetic clusterfuck of humanity.

More than Boris hates the motherland, more than he hates prison, he hates the Krushnics. Since the moment he entered their lives so many years ago, they have done nothing but destroy the empire Boris has worked so hard to build.

And not a single person on earth knows the whole truth of it, except for Boris Romanov.

Turning away from the fence, Boris sits down on a small wooden bench next to a man wearing sunglasses and holding a cane. He's young, but large and muscular, covered in scars and shadows of a dark past, and an even darker future.

Boris knows who he is, but he doesn't know who Boris is.

The man sits still as stone, not acknowledging Boris's presence at all.

They sit together in silence, watching and listening to their surroundings, men lifting heavy objects, throwing things to each other, wrestling, talking, laughing.

All of them are trapped here together, but Boris feels completely separate from them, like he feels about everyone he meets.

The man fidgets and Boris at last turns his attention to him. "Hello."

The man nods.

"Lovely day out," Boris lies.

"I wouldn't know," the man drawls in reply, voice deep.

Boris holds out his hand for the man to shake. "I'm Boris."

The man doesn't move, which only confirms the obvious for Boris.

"Boris Romanov," he adds.

The man laughs, mirthless. "Good meeting you, Mr. Romanov. I'm Rasputin."

Even when Boris is honest, no one believes him.

Such is the life of a criminal.

"And what is your name really?" Boris asks.

Finally, the man turns to Boris, and takes off his sunglasses.

His eyes are empty, black sockets. "Lucas."

Boris smirks. "Well, Lucas– or should I say, _Lucifer_ – I have one question for you." He pauses, and looks up at the guard looking back down at him, turns his head to stare around at the miles of flat, snowy plains, and watches as his breath crystallizes in front of him. Finally, he concludes, "Does the name _Castiel Krushnic_ ring a bell to you?"

Lucas sneers and clutches his cane tightly, knuckles turning white.

"I think you and I are going to get along very nicely, Lucas," Boris continues. "Because I have a deal to make with you."


End file.
